


Monsterhood

by crowsmile



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Humanity, Mild Gore, it does not go well, monster!Wilson, wilson makes another deal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-26 03:13:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14991530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowsmile/pseuds/crowsmile
Summary: A fire takes out the entire camp and kills everyone except Wilson, who is badly burned and wracked with guilt. The scientist makes another disastrous deal with Maxwell, which turns him into a beast, and his humanity begins to slowly slip away.





	Monsterhood

Dead. They were all dead, bodies carbonized by the intense fire that had now burned down to a simmer. Some of them lay, entrails spilled out upon the ash-streaked grass, half-boiled from the heat. Others had lost limbs and sizable portions of their torso to the gnashing teeth of hounds.

They were all dead, except for him.  
Wilson hobbled through the charred, gory mess of eviscerated bodies, half his face burnt and his leg almost fully removed of skin. The pain dominated most of his senses: he didn’t notice he was crying until the salt from his tears irritated his raw wounds.  
Why couldn't he have saved them? He was so close to helping.  
The hounds had attacked at night. They were so unprepared.  
They knocked over the burning logs in fire pit.  
They tried to run. The hounds were on fire, and spread the flames further.  
He could have... carried someone. Fought the hounds. But no, he didn’t.

He was weak.

Eventually, the burned soles of his dress shoes collapsed, and he was on his knees, shaking uncontrollably and wracked with pain. The bodies smelled down here, worse than any meat, like a mix of tallow candles and boiled blood. It was nauseating beyond belief, making rational thoughts both impossible and unnecessary. After all, he knew he was going to die. Even having survived, such grievous wounds, as well as the fact that he was now alone, made any chance of survival impossible.  
If he had just been stronger, braver, anything at all... this wouldn’t have happened.  
Even though he knew they would eventually be resurrected by Maxwell, by the meat effigies back at their other camp, he knew that death should not be taken lightly.

And it was all  
his  
fault.

Shadows clung to the edges of his vision, hanging low over the hilly mounds of unrecognizable flesh. They were writhing, crawling, speaking. Many whispers overlapping into a strangely melodious sound, if only the words they said were kind.

“Say pal... you don’t look so good,” mused a horrifically smug voice from behind Wilson. The scent of a cigar, somehow stronger than the stink of the bodies, drew close. The air was thick with it. “...But between you and me, your friends are looking a bit worse.”  
“Maxwell.” The name was like poison, harsh against his smoke-raw throat.  
“I wonder what could have done this to them, Wilson. Do you know?  
“Was it... hounds? No, it couldn't be. I know you can deal with hounds. What about fire? Willow is dead, so it couldn't be fire alone, could it?”

Maxwell. You know what happened.

“It certainly appears to be a combination of the two. But, who would be so careless to kick burning wood out of the fire pit? Perhaps this wouldn’t have happened if nobody was surprised by a vicious hound, hmm?” The scent of the cigar grew stronger, stinging Wilson’s half-blind eyes and burying itself deep into the blistered skin on his face. “Perhaps... if someone had told them all about the hounds coming instead of being speechless from fear?”  
“Maxwell!” spat Wilson, though the exclamation caused him to cough up blood as he spoke. His eyes were locked on the ground, watching the snake-like motions of the shadows across the bare soil. He knew Maxwell wasn’t really there. No point in moving.

The cold caress of a shadow hand brushed his face, making the searing pain of the burns numb. It seemed that Maxwell leaned in close, right next to Wilson’s face, like a good friend consoling him. But no, he only existed to torment, never to help in any way.  
“Look pal, I know you’ve had a tough time. You really wish you did something to prevent this, and that makes sense to me.” The change in Maxwell’s tone of voice was almost alarming, from devious and condescending to amicable in a matter of seconds. “Now, I’m going to make you an offer. How about I give you some real power, so you can defend your small group of friends from the next hound attack, huh? Enough power so no monster you face will pose any real threat.”  
“No,” replied Wilson flatly. He didn’t have time for this, he didn’t have time to talk to Maxwell. He was going to die soon, and he was not going to spend his last moments making another disastrous deal with the demon who brought him here.  
“Hm. How predictable,” Maxwell had no shock in his voice. “But are you really thinking this through? The next pack of hounds will be bigger and stronger, you know it. And, with winter closing in, getting your main camp destroyed again would be... a terrible idea.” Maxwell paused, knowing that it would take more convincing than that, especially due to his reputation with dodgy deals. “It’s not like I can drag you into hell again if you accept. You’re already in it!” he chuckled at his own joke, then stopped abruptly, knowing he did not have much time before Wilson died. The cigar smell drew closer, if that was even possible, to the point where is burned deep in the blood-flecked wounds on Wilson’s face.

“I’ll promise you this, pal. If you don’t like what you get, just tell me, and I’ll undo the deal, alright? Just say that you’re unhappy, and I’ll take away my gift.”

What would make a man obligated to accept such a deal?

Perhaps it was the delirium of pain, or the onset of insanity that compelled him...

But Wilson accepted.

 

The shadows had casually been winding through the mass of hound and human limbs, thin fibers of dark smoke clinging to the surface of the earth. But the second Wilson had accepted the deal, they burst from the ground like a striking snake, the coldness of their needle-like fingers so sharp and acute it ripped deep gashes down to his bones. The hands of dark magic tore by him in milliseconds, leaving the air thick with stirred up dust.

Everything was calm, and silent. The only motion around were the rising streaks of smoke, and the occasional cascade of ash. It was quiet, too quiet, and desolate. The wind gently blew a thin layer of burned skin from the ground.  
Where had the-

Something struck him hard in the back of the head, throwing his face to the dried ground. His head was spinning, ringing, the wounds on his face flaring up as soil mixed with his blood. Was his nose... broken? Spitting up blood and profanities, Wilson flipped himself over, clutching his face. Despite the coppery smell in the air from his blood, the saccharine smell of flowers and tobacco from Maxwell’s cigar once again flooded his senses. The shadows slipped over his neck, his arms, leaving paths of numbness and lacerated skin.  
Something gracefully stroked his face, harmless yet chilling, like the flat of a knife against his skin, before pausing above the mouth. Some primal part of his mind hoped that he wouldn’t die, hoped that he would survive, but he knew that a merciful death would be a better plan than whatever Maxwell had in store for him. The clawed shadows began to push harder against his face, threatening to break the skin.

No. No. No no nono nonono....

“Now, pal, don’t resist, or you’ll make it worse. I’ll hold up my end of the deal, you know I will,” said Maxwell, his voice coming from all directions at once, echoing in Wilson’s bones. The pressure from the shadows around his eyes and mouth lessened for a second-

-and then the razor-sharp talons pierced his skin, slicing muscle from bone.

Wilson would have rather gritted his teeth through the pain, to prove to himself that he wasn’t such a failure. But no, he screamed as the shadows writhed deep down in his flesh, ripping apart his body from the inside.

His eyes were bloodshot, frantically blinking away the pooling blood in his vision in a desperate bid to see what was happening. His veins pulsed, twitched under his skin; when he managed to glance at his arm, he saw shadows pouring through his arteries, visibly dark, pushing his blood out through his pores. A sickening crack rang through the burnt camp as his sternum snapped, followed by a symphony of pops as his ribs followed, buckling, healing, and breaking again. Was this all fun for Maxwell, to mutilate him while his other puppets recovered?

This could not be his end of the deal. Wilson felt drastically weaker, not stronger, as if his life and energy were being forcefully rent from his being.  
Why this? After all he’d gone through already...  
Why this, and why not death?  
Why had he agreed to another deal?  
The smell of cigar was the only sensation, apart from pain, that he could comprehend.

Stop  
Please  
Stop  
“Stop!” he managed to exclaim, a gush of hot blood pouring from his mouth. He gargled and choked on the blood. Coughing, he spat it out. “Please! You said-”  
“I know what I said. You haven’t gotten your reward yet. Be patient, and you’ll see it’s all worth it,” taunted the shadow demon, in a voice both simultaneously dripping with hate and sweet reassurance. “Before say do anything rash, I’ll give you time to think it through.”  
Two monstrous clawed hands, talons long and sharp, hooked onto Wilson’s jaw.

He barely had time to scream “No!” once more, as the hands ripped his jaw open with a cracking of overextended joints, and snapped the bone cleanly in two.

 

Webber’s eight eyes flickered open to a squint, their vision blurry between charcoal-crusted lids. They couldn't feel much at all, save for the rattling, weak breaths they managed to suck in between their fangs. Below the waist, there was no sensation at all. Though it pained the spider hybrid terribly to move, they were glad for some sort of feeling, some way to know what was happening. They grasped around, feeling naught but ash.

What was left of their vision became increasingly blurry as dark and light splotches spread like moss across the few things they could see. Realising that their eyes were growing blinder by the second, Webber closed them again, instead straining their other senses to observe.  
Was that... screaming? They couldn't tell how close or far it was; who it belonged to, or anything else. It didn’t seem human, but it didn’t seem like a hound. They needn’t worry: everyone else was either already dead or dying, doomed be be resurrected a few short days before the freezing winter. None of them were alive enough to scream, were they? Webber could already feel the chill of the shadows moving softly across their singed fur, the scent of cigars and roses they carried cloying to the nose. They knew death was inevitable.

The screaming grew loud and harsh for a few seconds, then faded to nothing. Quietly, softly, Webber slipped into a coma, their forced breathing slowing to a whisper, then stopping entirely.  
They’d see everyone again soon, that they knew, but in what state?

Only time could tell.

 

With an explosion of splinters and old blood, Webber thrashed their way out of a meat effigy. The magic statues were life savers, quite literally, but death was never worth the traumatizing memory and resurrection sickness anyway.

Webber had appeared at the temporary base, hidden deep in a thickety wood, among the shattered remains of other effigies. Every broken statue was a life lost to the attack, and regained through some dark ritual.  
They stumbled off the rough-hewn log pedestal and onto the tufted grass, nauseous and holding back bile in their throat, and hobbled into the main area of the base.

It seemed everyone else was there, Willow, Wigfrid, Wes, and the others, and all of them suffering from the side effects of their recent deaths. A fire burned low in the pit, and a crockpot calmly stewed some of the emergency supplies they had stashed in the camp. The supplies-- not nearly enough to last a week, let alone through the quickly approaching winter. Webber grimaced, not wanting to think about freezing to death after such a recent resurrection. What could that do to a person?  
Willow raised her head to look at the hybrid. Her eyes were sad and solemn, the memory of being torn apart by hounds still fresh in her mind.  
“Hello, Webber. It seems there weren’t any survivors, were there.”

Webber coughed a bit. “No, Missus Willow,” they replied in a rough, gravelly voice, far too deep for someone of nine years of age.  
Wes began gesturing wildly. Most members of the camp had a grasp for the mime’s silent language, but when it was rushed like this, there was no hope of comprehension. Eventually, he realized that no-one could understand him, and he slowed down and simplified his movements.  
Eventually, he was just pointing at the pile of broken wood that was the meat effigy area. No one realized what he was pointing at, until Wendy spoke up.

“There’s one meat effigy left,” she said flatly. Every person had one effigy to their name, and if everyone has been resurrected, they would have all been broken.

“Someone’s still out there.”

 

Wilson’s vision was failing, everything seeming more and less detailed at the same time. Shadows were everywhere, gripping and tearing at his skin and mind from inside and out, and yet the pain had begun to recede. How long could he hold on? How long could someone survive this?

His mouth hung open, numb and broken, dripping blood onto his hands as they dug into the soil. Hadn’t the soil been... harder? Compacted? He ripped his hands from the earth, uprooting a few tufts of burn-streaked grass. They were shaking, the veins still dark with shadows, but no longer hurt as much. His blood-soaked shirt was tight against his skin, shredded to ribbons in countless places, his aching bones unnervingly prominent underneath the fabric.  
Had he... had he done it? Had he survived until Maxwell was bored of his wretched game?  
He had.  
He had done it.  
He chuckled to himself, though his ribs were bruised and complained audibly when he did so.  
Slowly, Wilson picked himself up from his kneel, entire body lamenting softly, suddenly sore. He wanted to cheer, to exclaim in victory: Maxwell! I did it! Now I need my end of the deal!

But the second he opened his half-healed jaw to speak, a writhing mass of shadowy tendrils erupted from his neck and stomach cavity, shredding the skin. All he managed to yell was an unearthly scream as the shadows looped back and buried themselves themselves back into his body.

 

“Wilson.”

“Wilson is missing.”

“It hadn’t even occurred to me. Wilson’s gone. I’m so used to him being inside a tent or something.”

The entire group at the temporary camp had come to this realization. The mood hovering in their tones of voice was an odd one, unsure of whether or not they were happy that he had not been killed, just injured badly and left alone, about a four days’ journey from here. On one hand, he may have started to rebuild camp, gather supplies, and clean up the mess. On the other, he may be fatally injured and living out the last of his days in suffering solitude, succumbing to starvation, blood loss, or infection. Either way, the group decided to head back to the camp, but were leaving the most capable fighters behind to watch the effigy for a few more days.  
Wickerbottom’s bag was full of medical supplies, just to prepare for the worst upon arrival. Despite this, the worst they expected was much milder than the truth.

 

The shadows were everywhere, circling like hundreds of snakes, wrapping themselves tight around Wilson’s body in a constricting, numbing embrace. He couldn't feel most of his body, having lost the feeling of most of his extremities to the life-draining cold of the shade long ago.  
“Now, pal. Remember what I told you about not struggling.” Maxwell’s voice echoed in the shadowy chamber from an indiscernible direction. Wilson wanted to reply, but his broken mouth was being held shut and wracked by pins and needles. “Make things easier for yourself, for once.”  
With a snap of the magician’s fingers, Wilson could hear and feel every joint in his body dislocate simultaneously.

At least the shadow hands were numbing; and he was glad for it. He didn’t want to think about, he didn’t want to comprehend what was happening. Just listening was hard enough. Despite the ethereal roar of the circling shadows, he could hear his bones breaking and being violently reassembled, his vertebrae snapping. It was like his body was a puzzle, designed to go together in one, unique way: but if you broke the pieces enough, you could force them back together in any way you desired. Yes, there may be gaps, weak points, and connected pieces that become stuck on each other.  
But ruining a puzzle gave you the power to change the picture it formed at the end: especially if one were to add new pieces.

His body was a broken puppet suspended amongst the grasping dark. The numbness still lingered, but it no longer saved him from pain. It was fading into pins and needles. The burning sensation of open, bleeding wounds spread quickly across his body. As feeling returned, he realized in a rush that everything felt wrong-- as if the position of his bones had adjusted, and new limbs designed to fit his distorted frame had been attached, replacing the mangled bone and muscle he could call his own.  
The shadows were beginning to disperse, letting him fall to the ground. Sensation rushed back into his body. The smells, sights, and sounds he suddenly observed: everything was wrong, wrong, wrong.

As the dark tendrils dissipated into the air, Wilson collapsed to his knees, screwing his eyes shut. He was, frankly, afraid of what he would see, what his trembling, pained body would look like.  
The scent of a cigar drew close once more. No. No. Please not more-  
“Well, pal, you happy?” hummed Maxwell’s saccharine voice. He didn’t wait for a reply. “Come on, then, open your eyes.”

Wilson’s eyes snapped open involuntarily, staring down at the blood and shadow marbled ground, down as his hands. His hands, what were his hands... was he hallucinating? With such exposure to shadow, he must be. He must be.  
His hands had transformed into bird-like talons, twice their normal size, coated in dark, ragged scales, and ending in hooked claws that scraped the ground. At least his thumb seemed intact, but his bones were so stiff, fused in ways they shouldn’t be, that he was forced onto all fours. He struggled to stand, but the very weight of his body threatened to fracture his lower spine. His eyes widened, tears quickly forming.  
God, no.  
He didn’t want to think of what the rest of his body looked like.  
He glanced upwards from the ground, to find Maxwell standing in a casually whirling cloud of coalesced shadow. Undo this. Undo this now. Maxwell.

“Well, if you have complaints, I’d like to know,” Maxwell remarked, smirking.  
Yes.  
Wilson opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was an animalistic snarl. No! He coughed, tried to clear his throat, recoiling confusedly. Maxwell! Maxwell, undo this you bastard!  
More snapping and snarling, an incomprehensible chain of roars punctuated by the clicking of his far-too-long teeth-- fangs?

“What’s that, pal? You’re going to have to speak up.”  
Of course. ‘Just say that you’re unhappy, and I’ll take away my gift’-- but Wilson couldn't attempt to speak for the life of him. Wilson stared at Maxwell’s gloating face, hoping his distaste with the situation was tangible. Maxwell merely chuckled.  
“Well, alright then. Didn’t think you’d be happy, but since you’re not complaining...” Maxwell trailed off, glancing at Wilson with a cruel glitter in his eye. “I suppose I’ll take my leave.”

With a casual wave of his hand, Maxwell turned and sauntered off through the field of burned hound corpses, shadows clinging to his footsteps.  
“Hope your friends are still as friendly to you as they were before, pal!”

Quietly, the magician dissolved into shadow and disappeared into the earth.

 

The small party of survivors reached their main camp after a rushed few days of hiking. They were fatigued, the backpacks full of supplies sagging off their sore shoulders. It was already worryingly cold, with frost setting in over the nighttime. They’d have to rebuild camp as quickly as possible.

When they found the camp, it was a depressing sight. The burned skeletons of bee boxes, farms, and tents bristled out from a muddied mess of rotting hounds and charred bones. The science machine and alchemy engine were disemboweled, their inner workings streaked with soot and leaning precariously against an ash-covered stone wall. Willow grimaced at the destroyed buildings, knowing they couldn't possibly repair everything before winter. They’d have to prioritize.  
The small group wandered into the middle of the mess, trying to avoid looking too hard at the corpses, their corpses, and becoming too unnerved to work. But Webber, still young and curious, glanced around the burned piles. Everything seemed to be covered in a thick, dark silt, stark against the pale, flaky ashes. So distracted were they that they barged straight into Willow, who had stopped suddenly.  
“Gah! We’re sorry!” Webber apologized immediately, wanting to prove that they had learned their manners.  
“It’s okay, Webber. Just watch out next time, alright?” comforted Willow. Webber nodded, and then looked forward, wondering why Willow had even halted in the first place.

The center of the camp, where the firepit used to be, was absolutely destroyed. Sharp splinters of wood from crushes chests protruded like porcupine quills from the soil, tall enough to messily eviscerate someone careless. The grey ash was painted intricately with lines and pools of dried blood, and deep furrows were torn into the soil. It reeked of death, pain, and tobacco, a smell that everyone knew too well. A bitter feeling rose in their chests, and Webber hissed angrily, the spider-hairs on their head rising.  
Maxwell. A person they preferred not to talk about, or interact with. A demon in the flesh. In a moment, they had all silently agreed to rebuild a bigger, better camp, just for the satisfaction for spiting him.

 

Winter closed in after only three days of preparation, but they had already done a surprising amount of work. Wickerbottom had cleaned up the central area surprisingly well, using boards scavenged from the surrounding wreckage to make a dry, comfortable platform, and a load of new chests. Wendy, unable to fight much until Abigail returned, had begun to cultivate the soil. The ash was good fertilizer, but the time it took to grow crops meant that they ended up green and immature when the first snow came. Webber had gone hunting, and Willow had gathered materials for drying racks and crock pots from the closeby woods, which still smouldered from the fire. Wes had woven grass sleeping mats, which wouldn’t last long at all, but were good enough until they had enough silk for tents.

But as the cold, snowy days dragged on, they knew that they were missing something important. The science tools lay, broken and useless, where they had been found. Wickerbottom had begun repairs and preserved the parts, but the way the machines were constructed was illogical and strange. Despite being the most knowledgeable person on the island, she couldn't figure out the schematics for the constructions.  
They needed Wilson. The science machine was his design, something he had made on a whim. Yet, he was nowhere to be found.

Everyone’s hopes rose when Wolfgang and Wigfrid, wrapped in breezy vests from the temporary base appeared through the thick snowfall. Wes waved excitedly at the two, probably glad that his group hadn’t been attacked when their strongest warriors weren’t around. Wickerbottom looked up from the trashed science machine with relief in her eyes, glad that Wilson had returned to fix these stupidly designed creations; yet, within seconds, her face fell again.  
“Science man didn’t come,” Wolfgang explained, his thick Russian accent low and solemn. “Waited for days.” Wigfrid only deeply scowled, obviously deprived of a good fight from waiting in the camp for so long.  
Silence fell over the camp. They could almost feel Maxwell laughing at them.  
“If he didn’t use an effigy...” began Willow.  
“Then, he escaped the sweet embrace of death,” finished Wendy. Willow looked at her, too tired to be upset or creeped out at Wendy’s near emotionless demeanor.  
“...that means he’s still out there, somewhere,” concluded Willow, exasperated. “Why didn’t he just stay here? He knew it wouldn’t take long for us to get back.”

Webber’s eight eyes looked over the surrounding landscape. It was desolate, snow-caked, speckled with a few tangles of bushes and stands of trees.

Where could he have gone?

 

Wilson lay, defeated, in a pile in the snow. His new body was remarkably resistant to the biting cold, but that didn’t make him any more comfortable. He hadn’t eaten in days, hadn’t tried to walk for longer. It was excruciating, having to drag himself around on all fours like some horrid monster. His claws, his fangs: nothing made him more uncomfortable than wondering what they could do to an animal, how easily they could slice through flesh and bone. He hoped that he could just die, fade away into the snow, and show up back at the meat effigy in the temporary camp. But no, he couldn't, he would die within minutes from the freezing temperature if he was brought back as his old self.

And so he stayed in one place, thinking, comparing his choices. He had no way to tell what he looked like. Was he still recogniseable as himself? Even as a person? Or would his friends run in fear, or would they even kill him on sight?  
He growled, settling deeper into the snow drift. It was useless. Maxwell had turned him into another one of the beasts roaming the island. He probably had an insatiable bloodlust to deal with: that seemed like the kind of cruel trick Maxwell would play.

What if he was friendly to them? No, that wouldn’t work. As much as it pained him to admit, they’d kill almost anything for food, even if it had done them no harm whatsoever.

Useless.

Useless.

Useless!

Suddenly, Wilson snapped out of his spiteful train of thought. The baying of hounds, a little ways off to the east, but rushing closer by the second. From what he remembered, he was east from the camp, so they’d get to him first.  
Begrudgingly, he lifted himself off the ground, almost falling over. Moving would take some getting used to, especially now that it was nearly physically impossible to see where his back feet were stepping. He had no spear, no weapon of any sort-  
Idiot. He had claws now, for God’s sake.  
Could he even hold a spear anymore?  
He still didn’t want to think about that.

At first, he didn’t see the ice hounds. Their white-and-blue fur was brilliantly camouflaged against the backdrop of ice and snow. Yet he knew they were there, some new and primal sense telling him so. He could smell their blood, feel the electric pulses driving their ruthlessly efficient killing-machines of bodies. It was horrifying, how sensitive his perception of these things had become. It was overwhelming. He needed to lie down.  
The first hound hit his side with a massive amount of force, almost knocking him over into the snow. Wilson scrabbled at the icy ground, regaining his footing, and wheeled around, teeth bared and snarling. The pack was large, staring him down, circling. The smell of their blood was sweet, almost tempting to spill. Tempting to taste.  
No. Stop thinking like that. You are NOT a monster. Wilson growled at a low tone, angry at himself.

In an explosion of snow, the hounds lunged together, incredibly agile in the deep snow, oversized teeth bared and gnashing. Wilson bared his teeth as well-- it was involuntary, as if his body had a mind of its own. He felt his hands whip out from underneath him, talons striking a hound, effortlessly ripping off part of its face. Purplish blood spattered the sparkling snow. The second hound met its death as it collided with the other scaly talon, and was shoved down into the snow, its skull buckling and cracking against the packed ice a few feet below the surface. A third fell, sheared and two: and a fourth, and a fifth...  
Wilson was crying, wracked by sobs as his newfound, superhuman reflexes took life after life, brutally slashing at the hounds. A skull was crushed in his palm, a talon tore through a ribcage and punctured a lung. The snow was dark with monster blood, churned by the rushing footsteps of multiple quadrupedal beasts.

As suddenly as it began, the fighting paused, no- it had ended. The hounds lay in ragged pieces around Wilson, shredded and dead in the snow. He was shaking, but he was unsure whether it was from adrenaline or spasming, choking sobs. He had to control himself. He couldn't let that happen whenever another animal showed up. He couldn't.  
He was no monster. Not a monster.  
Was he?

 

The band of survivors stood in the center of the camp, gripping spears and wearing whatever armor they could remember how to make. The fire pit blazed bright to keep them warm, as they had to sacrifice their warm clothing for protection.

And yet, instead of bracing for attack, there was a kind of collective confusion hanging over the area. A few of them murmured back and forth, Wigfrid looked completely disappointed and perplexed, and Wes wore an expression of baffled relief.  
“I’m not the only person who heard hounds, right?” remarked Willow.  
“Wolfgang heard bad doggies,” confirmed Wolfgang.  
“So did we!” exclaimed Webber.  
“Does anyone hear them anymore?” asked Willow.  
The camp fell silent for a moment. There was no sound, save that of the whistling wind and their own breathing.  
“From what I heard, I could surmise that the hounds were attacked by something else along the way,” Wickerbottom tried to explain.  
“Yeah!” agreed Webber. “We agree! We think we heard the puppies making sad noises.”

The next silence was uneasy, nobody knowing what to do. Was it safe to put down their weapons? If the hounds were dead, then they had nothing to fear for a little while, but what could take out an entire pack of hounds in such a short amount of time? Perhaps a deerclops, but there was no sign of a giant in the vicinity. They fidgeted uncomfortably with their makeshift weapons, waiting for something to happen.  
Eventually, it did.  
“I’m gӧing ӧut tӧ lӧӧk,” Wigfrid eventually remarked, adjusting her battle helm. “I haven’t had a fight wӧrthy ӧf my skill in days.”  
“Wigfrid, wait!” blurted Willow. “You don’t know what’s out there!”  
“I am a warriӧr of the gӧds! Dӧ nӧt dӧubt me, fire maiden.”  
And with that, the valkyrie strode out into the snow.

 

Wilson fled out over the snow drifts, making a neat line to what he thought was north. To the ice-coated forests, to more cover. He didn’t want to go back to the slaughter. He didn’t want to think about it, how it made him feel. He got blood in his mouth, and it tasted fantastic. It took all of the mental focus he could provide not to turn around and run back.  
‘It’s not like I can drag you into hell again’. Ha-ha. Very funny, Maxwell.

 

Wigfrid skidded to a halt, brandishing her battle spear. The area she had stumbled upon was quiet and still, but the scene of a recent battle. The lifeless bodies of hounds were littered amongst partially-frozen puddles of their own blood, often rent in two or more pieces. The air was thick with a beastly smell, the musk of the hounds coupled with the reek of their spilled innards. A track of odd, unrecognizable footprints following a strange gait had been traced over the nearest snow drift.  
Something had beaten her to the hunt, then run away. How disappointing.

She took mental note of the direction of the tracks, and headed back to camp.

 

“Nothing?”  
“Nӧthing. The hӧunds had been slain, and whatever demӧn did it has mӧved ӧn.”  
Willow frowned at Wigfrid, still confused as to why someone would be so keen on entering life-threatening fights. Anyway, each to their own. There were more important things to be concerned about.  
“Moved on? It died too?”  
“Nӧ. Just headed tӧ the nӧrth. The beast is a cӧward.”  
Willow froze: the others from the camp looked up from their jobs as well. Frankly, none of them had been truly focussing on their work, anyway. Too much going on at the moment.  
“The beast: as in, a singular monster?” inquired Wickerbottom.  
“There was ӧnly ӧne set ӧf tracks, belӧnging tӧ a creature I dӧ nӧt knӧw,” explained Wigfrid.

Everyone came to the realization that there was a new creature capable of slaughtering dozens of hounds in seconds, a creature that, if Wigfrid guessed correctly, was dangerously close to camp.

All eyes turned to the north.

 

Wilson eventually collapsed after almost two hours of running. He had reached the forest, but only after taking a long and convoluted route, trying to hide his tracks. His friends were smart, and they knew hound attacks didn’t just stop happening. They would be looking for whatever killed the hounds, and he was definitely not ready to see them again.  
Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Control yourself.

There was no chance of survival if he encountered all the survivors at once, especially Wigfrid or Wolfgang. The best hope he had was to find somewhere to hide in the forest, some thick clump of undergrowth, and wait until he sorted out his situation. Perhaps if he found a frozen-over pond, he could see his reflection and assess whether or not he was truly beastly. He face did feel strange, and it didn’t seem to function in the same manner it used to, but the least he could hope for was some kind of distinguishing mark.  
Distinguishing mark-- wait.

He sat down in a sort of half-squat, hoping he wouldn’t fall over after lifting his hands off the ground. Thankfully, he didn’t. Carefully, as if one wrong move could spell destruction, he lifted his hands to his head.  
Damn it, he thought as a talon accidently sliced across his cheek. These monster hands are so... clumsy. And numb. They don’t feel much, he reflected bitterly, as he gingerly unhooked the talon from the groove it carved in his skin.

Gently, he touched his hair, to find it matted with blood and gore. Apart from that, he couldn't tell much about it. The scales on these hands, these stupid, uncoordinated hands, made it impossible to tell. Based on the previously undefeatable tenacity of his characteristic hairstyle, however, he hoped that at least that remained recognisable.  
Fool. He’d been turned into a monster, perhaps the size of a Varg, probably with an appetite and cruel streak to match, and he was checking to see if his hair was alright?  
At least there was some kind of hint as to what he looked like. It was so hard to tell much at all, with the awkwardly fused bones or illogical joints that now formed his body preventing much in the way of flexibility.

The monstrous scientist leaned his weight back onto his forelegs (since when had he started regarding his arms as forelegs?), and rose from the ground. He’d find a good place to settle down for the night, out of the bitter wind and sleet. Much to his relief, he found out that the night monster never attacked things it considered inhuman: and, as it turns out, he fit the bill. Though it was a distressing fact, no need for a fire meant he could sleep soundly without having to make sure the flames didn’t die.

Quietly, he wandered off to a clump of bare bushes amongst the evergreen copse. As he lay down, he hoped he’d done a good enough job at covering his tracks and hiding himself.

For the umpteenth time this week, he cried himself to sleep.

 

Webber crouched by the slowly dying fire, hugging a thermal stone tightly to their chest. It wasn’t dark yet, but they hadn’t had the chance to make enough puffy vests for everyone. Most of the others had ventured off after a koalefant, leaving Wickerbottom and Wolfgang behind to take care of Webber and Wendy. Webber had a vest a little bit earlier, but sacrificed a little bit of warmth to keep Wickerbottom comfortable during her long, cold, nights awake.  
The snow clung to Webber’s fuzzy exoskeleton, as it does to fleece mittens, icy against their body. Dismayed, they attempted to brush it off, but only succeeded in covering their shivering hands with it. They didn’t want to melt the snow before they could brush it off properly, so they abandoned their fireside post and went to go take inventory, or something more useful.

“Missus Wickerbottom?” the spider-hybrid chirped inquisitively.  
“What do you need, Webber?” replied Wickerbottom from her spot at a rudimentary workbench. She was busy working, but not on the science machines. They’d decided looking for Wilson would be a better attempt at fixing them, in the long term.  
“We’re out of logs. Is it okay if we go an get more?” queried Webber, pointing at the snow-heavy boughs of the trees in the near distance.  
Wickerbottom considered her answer for a moment, then nodded. “Make sure you don’t go alone, and be careful. We still don’t know what kind of organism is out there.”  
“Okay!”

Webber lifted a backpack onto their shoulders, and an axe into their hands. The straps on the pack were cold and damp from melted snow, but it was the newest one in camp, and the least likely to break from a heavy load. They adjusted the straps, making sure they wouldn’t slip off their small frame, and skipped over the packed snow to Wolfgang. Wolfgang was a good person to bring along, as he was strong enough to defend against most threats, but unlike Wigfrid he’d prefer not to start a fight. Woodie was the best lumberjack around, but he was with the group hunting the koalephants.  
“Mister Wolfgang! Would you like to go get more wood?” Webber asked cheerfully. “I have my pack and my axe and my thermal stone.”  
“Get log from north forest?” Wolfgang said confusedly. “Is scary. Where monster is.”  
Webber paused uncomfortably, remembering that fact. That was precisely why no one had been going to chop wood, and they had to rely on meager stores and planks from the wrecked remains of the old camp. Webber clutched their axe harder.  
“We’ll be careful,” they eventually said.  
“Okay. Promise Wolfgang,”  
“I proooomise,” said Webber, drawing out the ‘o’ sound. Wolfgang chuckled, and patted the hybrid on the head (perhaps a little too hard).

The two gathered up a few supplies for the cold weather, and trudged out into the deep, winding dunes of snow. In some spots, Webber’s head would be just barely above the snow, as if they were drowning in water. Both wished that the stone path, which had thankfully not been destroyed, would be easy to locate and walk upon: however, the snow was at least as high as Webber’s waist in all places, so the path made no difference.  
Thankfully, the tree wells were not nearly as deep. Most of the snow here rested on the upper branches, the only sign of it being small droplets of sun-melted icicle dripping from the leaves. Growing sparsely between the older evergreens were young, new saplings, which had been planted just before the hound attack that destroyed their camp. Webber paused for a moment, thinking. The group had a system, where they’d chop down and replant one section of the forest at a time. Of course, that was largely disrupted by the ugly, burned gash along one of the closeby sections of perimeter, but, if Webber remembered correctly, the best trees for chopping would be closer to the middle.

Webber brandished their axe like a warrior, and strode deeper into the forest. Wolfgang followed closely behind, cautioning Webber with choppy English.  
“Careful. Dead tree.”  
“Thorn bush.”  
“Big rock.”  
Webber had already noticed most of these obstacles, but it was a nice reassurance to know someone had their back.

Eventually the ground evened out, giving way to the well-cultivated patch of land that the group had logged multiple times before. The trees here were significantly smaller and easy enough for Webber to cut down, but were old enough to supply sturdy, dry wood. Thankfully, trees grew miraculously fast in this world, making farms such as these highly effective.  
Wolfgang used a makeshift axe to fell a few of the larger trees, and then helped Webber chop a few. As the third tree fell, Webber noticed something a little ways away, in the forest. One of the older trees had been uprooted and had keeled over, and was bridging a steep-sided chasm in the snow. On the other side, rested a two-tier spider nest, the webbing clinging between the surrounding plants and trees. He could catch a few of the spiders and bring them over to Wolfgang-- who, as much as it made Webber uncomfortable-- could take the spider’s glands for healing products. The hunters would need it, and there was no chance of getting honey this far into winter. They didn’t like to kill other spiders, but the spiders were aggressive to his friends and their glands were valuable.

“Mister Wolfgang, is it okay if we go over to the spiders to get healing glands?” queried Webber, pointing their fuzzy hand over at the nest. Wolfgang shuddered visibly, not wanting to interact much with spiders, but thought better of it.  
“Okay. Bring spear.” he said reluctantly, handing Webber one of the weapons. Webber nodded, and did a mock army salute.

The hybrid skipped over to the fallen tree and hopped onto it, their nimble spider feet quickly finding purchase upon the frozen bark. Carefully, they crept along the length of the trunk, spreading their arms to keep their balance. The large ditch in the snow below seemed much deeper from directly above, and was thick with scraggly bushes and large, hard patches of fallen icicles. Webber swallowed down a lump in their throat, turning their gaze back to the nest on the end of the bridge. A few of the spiders had turned to look at them, but showed no aggression.  
The frozen wood was creaking creaking dangerously underneath their feet. Webber grimaced, debating whether or not to turn back. Though they were almost there, they wouldn’t risk it. Slowly and carefully, they turned in place, and began to walk their way back.

The tree groaned and trembled ominously, pitching a few inches to the side. Webber fell to their hands and knees, digging their sharp claws into the bark. Frightened, they glanced backwards, wondering what had happened. A few spiders were crawling into the tree, their six sharp legs gouging sizeable chunks out of the bark. Much to Webber’s horror, the trunk was rotted inside, a putrid yellowish color. If the spiders’ legs damaged enough of the bark, they’d all go down.  
“Go away, spider friends!” pleaded Webber, as they inched along the trunk. No use.  
“Web, jump!” called Wolfgang from the opposite end of the tree, by the mass of tangled roots. “Wolfgang catch you!”  
Webber gritted their teeth, and slowly stood up. Their footing was secure. They could make it.

The tree cracked loudly, buckling further down into the gorge. The spiders behind were scrabbling at the bark, trying to get off the trunk before it collapsed completely. Wolfgang reached out--

And the tree fell.  
Webber had the common sense to jump away from the falling tree, landing hard in a tangle of snow-dusted bushes. Chunks of sallow, rotting bark exploded into the air, and littered the snow like shards of bone.

“Web, is okay?” called Wolfgang from the top of the chasm. Webber hoisted themselves up, waving back at the strongman. The fall was not significant, but the sides of the pit were far too steep to climb.  
“We’re alright!” replied Webber, reassuring Wolfgang. Wolfgang looked positively relieved. “We’ll walk that way,” explained Webber, pointing down the chasm. It ought to slope back up to level ground sometime, and that was the direction of camp. “Meet us at the end, okay?”  
“Okay!” said Wolfgang, wiping his brow. The fall and the spiders must’ve given him quite a scare.

 

The snow down here was harder, probably from lack of sunlight. At least there was little danger of sinking, and Webber’s thermal stone was still decently warm. With enough luck, they’d meet back up with Wolfgang soon enough.  
But for now, they were utterly alone. They supposed a lot of animals didn’t make their home down in the pit, because it had no food or shelter. So, hopefully, they’d be safe from any surprise attacks from pig villagers, or other mean creatures.  
It was this barrenness that made Webber completely shocked when they found fresh tracks along the bottom of the canyon.

Although most of the animals that attacked the others regarded Webber with indifference, they still remained cautious. The tracks were none they recognised as dangerous, but a fair share of normally friendly animals disliked the hybrid as well. Thus, much like everyone else, Webber would have rather avoided moving in the direction of the tracks. However, they had little choice. The tracks followed the chasm in the direction that Webber was headed. Thankfully, the ditch was growing shallower and wider, and possibly they’d reach the end before whatever made those tracks.  
Webber frowned and gripped their spear. If they had a way to talk to Wolfgang over long distance. That way, they could work together to get past whatever was down here.

The gorge was almost level now. The walls were just a little bit too high to climb, but the area between them was padded with snow and dotted with trees. The way out should be just ahead, on the other side of the large, shrub-covered rock that dominated the center of the gully. Webber rubbed their hands together, trying to preserve the last scrap of heat from the thermal stone, and strode forward into the snow.  
Perhaps if they hadn’t been so cold and weary, they would have recognised a few crucial details about the place they were walking through.  
Firstly, the tracks they had been following terminated suddenly in the center of the area.  
Secondly, the place was eerily silent. Not a bird dared chirp.

And, lastly, the boulder was moving.

 

Webber froze. They were almost out of the gorge, but a twig behind them had snapped mysteriously. The brittle noise was loud and clear against the otherwise noiseless forest. Their hand wrapped tightly around their spear, they dared a glance backward. What they had casually dismissed as a rock was shifting visibly, the twisted, leafy branches that had been covering it sliding off. Within seconds, they realised that the bushes had actually been uprooted and purposefully utilized to cover whatever animal they supposed was underneath. Webber weighed their options: some animals would only attack if they saw you as a threat, some only if you ran, or some would just try to eat you off the bat. Cautiously, they began to move slowly backwards, hoping they wouldn’t draw attention to themselves.  
The creature stood up, shaking the remaining twigs from its back. It was definitely a new creature: not surprising, as Maxwell tended to regularly create new beasts to hunt down the survivors. It seemed to be a cross between a griffin and a hyena, two animals Webber vaguely remembered from a storybook they read before they entered the world. Which one was the fantasy animal? The hybrid couldn't remember, and it didn’t really matter much.

Standing up fully, Webber quickly assessed the creature for possible danger. Though it stood with the hunched position of the hyena, its head hanging low, it looked terribly lithe and agile. Its legs were thickly scaled, ending in talons the size of meathooks. The brick-red feathers on its back were spattered with purplish gore, and the dark grey crest of feathers on its head was messy and tangled with blood. Although the feathers on its face looked like they were normally pale, they were also a deeply bloodied, stained the color of red wine. Its beak hung open awkwardly, as if damaged, revealing gums bristling with too many teeth.  
Its eyes snapped open, staring directly at Webber. No escape now, if it was aggressive. Webber hoped they could make it to the trees and hide.

The beast didn’t seem too aggressive. It mostly stood still, its eyes keen and intelligent, and perhaps somewhat sorrowful. It made a quiet, mournful sound, and began to slowly limp towards Webber. Was it injured?

Either way, Webber’s hands were tight around the spear, ready to strike if needed.

 

Webber. Webber. Please.

If there was anyone who would understand what it would be like to become a monster, it would be you. Please.  
Put down the spear.  
Please!

Wilson dragged himself over to the other survivor. Every bone in his body hurt. How long had he been asleep in that thicket? But that was the least of his problems at the moment.  
What concerned him the greatest was the fact that Webber did not recognise him at all. What did he look like? What had Maxwell done to him?

Webber was backing away, grabbing the spear harder as Wilson approached.  
No, Webber! Come back!  
In desperation, Wilson reached out a clawed hand, carefully controlling his movements. Don’t scare them. Don’t scare them. Webber was trembling visibly, the spider legs on the sides of their head twitching nervously. Wilson paused, glanced away, and pulled back his hand. He needed Webber to recognise him. He needed help.  
But, just as he was about to place his hand back down on the ground, one of his back legs caught on a root. Off balance at the best of times, Wilson almost faceplanted in the snow before Webber.  
Frightened at how the sudden movement would be interpreted, Wilson looked quickly back up at where Webber was standing. The hybrid has turned tail and was running, carving tracks through the snow, faster than what was usually possible in these snowy environs.

No! Webber, come back!  
No no no no no no no-  
“No!”

 

Had that monster just... spoken? No time to think about it. If Webber stopped running, it would be on him in seconds.

 

Wilson sputtered, tried to speak once more. His voice was not his own: some strange mix of overlapping animal noises that somehow formed a word. No use, no chance. Frustrated, he clawed at his face and mouth, feeling the horrifically disfigured skull he was locked inside. He choked down a sob, and gritted his teeth. He was not going to pass up this opportunity.

Still unused to the way his body moved, he stumbled forward into an awkward gallop, desperately trying to avoid tripping over his own feet. Webber was still moving away at a steady pace, heading for the way out of the gorge and into a tightly-packed grove of massive trees, where their smaller size would give them an advantage. Smart kid, thought Wilson, trying to grasp at any positive notions he could. After a short time of running, he was gaining quickly on Webber. The gait he held was controlled by focus alone: if his mind wandered, he’d almost fall over again. This serious focus left him mentally tired by the time he finally caught up with the survivor. Cautiously, he slowed down, and matched Webber’s pace, not wanting to scare the child.  
Nevertheless, he did.

 

The beast drew up alongside Webber, too close for comfort. Webber gulped down a gasp of air, already winded from floundering through the snow, and sprinted for as far as they could. The depth of the snow was dragging them back, slowing them down, tiring them out. But there was no time to deal with the creature right now. Perhaps later, in a safer environment, Webber would try and observe it better. The monster eventually slowed down to a stop, evidently not wanting to leave the gorge. Webber scrambled up the wall, which was finally low enough to climb, and jogged off into the forest in the general direction of the camp.

 

Winter wore on, growing close to its end. The snow stopped falling so readily: at times, the noon sun was warm enough to allow long times out in the frost-covered plains without need for a vest or thermal stone. Though they hadn’t had a chance to create enough puffy vests, the Koalefant hunts had been largely fruitful. However, spring was approaching quicker than what was expected, and they were still missing an important asset to the survival of the camp.  
Wilson.

Without his science machines, they’d never make it through another spring. Last year was devastating, and none of them could really remember the designs for anything useful. His absence had become worrying enough that the group had sent Wigfrid back to the temporary camp to check on the effigy. Much to everyone’s surprise, it was still standing, showing no signs of use or damage. What had happened to him remained a mystery, for they knew he was still alive but strangely didn’t return to camp.  
Though they had spent some time looking for him, the snow prevented a lot of movement. They had no starting point, no way to see where he had gone. But that was before the snow in camp melted down to a point where new pieces of wreckage were exposed.  
Though a lot of cleaning had been done before winter’s full force had hit the camp, large parts of collapsed buildings had been buried and encrusted in ice before much could be done. Hoping to salvage something of value, and few members of the camp took to digging out the destroyed pieces of buildings that had just started to poke above the snow.

What they found was worrying.  
As they dug deeper, there was an alarmingly copious amount of dark, frozen blood, staining the wood and clinging to the rocks. Unlike monster blood, it was not purple. It was rusty red human blood, but the amount of it that was spilled seemed to be more blood that was ever in a person’s body. Worried for what they may find, they broke down the structure as quickly as possible. The red-stained ice snapped as the broken shards of wood were pried from the snow.  
There, hooked onto a sharp shard of ice, was Wilson’s striped vest, stained a deeper red from the sheer amount of blood on it, and shredded at countless angles to the point it was hardly recognisable as a garment.  
That was the only sign of Wilson they could find.

They knew it was dangerous to look for him in winter, even though it was ending. There were some unknown threats out there, and the cold would be strong enough to kill them during the mornings and evenings. But Wilson was out there, probably wounded, and they needed him to fix the science machines.  
Most of them never thought they’d miss Wilson’s recklessly inquisitive and arrogant demeanor so much.

 

Willow clutched her spear hard. Her hands were chilled to the bone from the bitterly cold wind that had kicked up, but at least she was spared any snow or rain.  
Most of the survivors had left camp that morning, taking a few essential supplies. They’d never had to search for someone before, especially someone who had been gone for almost a full season. The chances of finding Wilson were startlingly low, but hopefully he had the common sense to stay near camp.  
Then again, this was Wilson. Common sense was not really his forte.

Only a few people were back at camp, mostly because there were not enough puffy vests and too little time. Having a larger group may have helped, but keeping the camp in good repair was also key.  
That was why a shiver was sent down everyone’s spines when they heard a low, guttural noise from dangerously closeby.

Deerclops.

“Should we go back?” asked Webber nervously, fumbling with their spear.  
“We shӧuld fight,” said Wigfrid, setting her jaw and raising her spear.  
Willow paused for a moment, about to disagree with Wigfrid, but changing her mind.  
“If we go back, the deerclops will destroy everything,” began Willow, “and we can’t let that happen. Our best chance is to try and lead the deerclops to where it will get distracted for a long time.”  
Everyone looked fearful, but agreed silently.  
“The swamp sounds like a good choice, eh?” said Woodie. Wolfgang shook his head nervously, but most of the others had to say that the swamp was probably the best place to get the deerclops stuck. Together, they rushed off in the approximate direction of the swamp, hoping they’d get there before freezing to death.

It was just their luck that the direction they were heading was right on the deerclops’ path.  
“Quick. Run,” whispered Willow to the rest of the group. The deerclops was distracted with breaking down a pig house, but that didn’t last long. If they didn’t get a head start, they’d be too tired to run before they reached the swamp.  
Suddenly, the deerclops swivelled in place, staring down the group with its singular eye. Its thin, strong limbs ended in claws sharp enough to slice someone in half, and it moved faster than one would expect a multistory deerlike abomination to. They had no armor, few weapons, and no allies. It would kill them in seconds.  
“Run!” exclaimed Willow, already beginning to sprint.

The deerclops lunged forward, covering a startling amount of distance in a single stride. There was a sudden chill that spread through the air: the monster’s claws sometimes cooled down to the point where even a small slash to the arm would leave a person frostbitten and dying. They weren’t going to make it, not when the temperature had already dropped far enough to begin numbing their feet. The deerclops’ elklike muzzle emitted a booming grunt as it reared, casting a bewilderingly large, cold shadow over the pale snow.  
Yet the strike never came.  
The group crawled their way out of the shadow, out of the range of the deerclops’ reach, and dared to glance backward. The winter giant’s singular, bloodshot eye rotated lazily in its socket, its attention obviously distracted by something new. It bared its bloodstained fangs and snarled, before slowly turning to the right, with little sense of urgency.

Webber’s eight eyes widened when they caught sight of what the deerclops had been distracted by.  
“That’s the monster we saw in the forest,” they said quietly.

 

Wilson did not want to fight the deerclops. Not under the best of circumstances, and certainly not now, when he was only just getting used to moving properly. Furthermore, when was the last time he’d eaten anything? A slower reaction time would surely spell doom for him.  
The whole point of making the deal with Maxwell was to protect his friends.  
‘Enough power so no monster you face will pose any real threat’. That’s what Maxwell had promised, after all.  
He hoped the deerclops counted in that statement.

The deerclops made no move, its rather primitive brain unsure about attacking this new creature. Instead, it just growled viciously, glancing back and forth between Wilson and his friends. His friends-- they were just in a safe space away from the giant, but were all watching him instead of the real threat.  
Someone. Please recognise me, pleaded Wilson to no-one. He knew that such a request was in vain. He’d been changed to much, and into what? Some kind of terrifying monster. They’d never trust him, never help him unless he did something profound first.  
As profound as attacking the deerclops.

Oh, well. Time to put on a good show.

Wilson paused, focusing on the deerclops. With luck, his friends would help him, but they may not. Be prepared for anything, he reminded himself, with a steely resolve. They don’t know you anymore.  
With that, he tore forward through the snow, directly at the deerclops. The focus of its singular eye snapped to him, and it reared up winding back for a brutal strike. The air grew cold with the icy powers of the upcoming strike. Wilson grit his fangs, snarling, and continued to charge.

 

The group was preparing to begin running again. When animals attacked each other, they often ran head to head and attacked. Against a deerclops, the feathery beast would be dead in seconds.

Webber watched carefully. The creature seemed to be more intelligent than usual; after all, it had camouflaged itself and had possibly even spoken. Perhaps they wouldn’t have to run for the swamp.

 

3

The icy chill of the deerclops’ claws whipped closer at alarming speed. Condensation in the air turned to snow within seconds, gently sprinkling the ground.

2

Crackling sparked through the atmosphere as moisture riding on Wilson’s exhalations froze in midair. The ground, previously wet with melted snow, was freezing over and becoming slippery.

1

The claws slammed down next to Wilson as he leapt swiftly to the side, leaving a crystalline structure where he was just standing.  
The deerclops uttered a confused noise, recoiling abruptly, as if realising it wasn’t fighting the average idiotic animal. Roaring angrily, it raised the other hand, ready to slash again within a few seconds.  
Wilson, seeing his opening, darted behind the deerclops and out of danger. No ice this time. He could get close, attack its knees. His four legged gait propelled him forward with such surprising speed, so much so he almost lost his balance and fell over. The deerclops’ strike missed by a long shot, more of a badly aimed swat to its side than anything. It would take its time to wind up another strike, due to its size.  
Claws extended and mouth wide, Wilson leapt for the side of the knee, hitting it full force. The deerclops bellowed wretchedly as Wilson’s talons dug deep into its tough flesh, refraining from starting another icy attack to swat the scientist off instead. Seeing a strike coming, Wilson quickly snapped at the closest part of the deerclops’ leg. There was an awful, bloody snapping and tearing, and Wilson’s mouth came free, along with a mouthful of fur and flesh. Gagging, he spat it out, and then sidestepped just in time for another strike to just barely scrape past. A warm patch of pain bloomed near his hip, but it wasn’t serious. He glanced upward, waiting to see where the next attack was coming from.  
Right above him, it seemed. The deerclops had sacrificed its strength for speed, and was almost upon him again. Wilson exclaimed in alarm, and dove out of the way, faceplanting in the snow. Frantically, he scrambled to his feet, and galloped off in a zig-zag pattern. The winter giant’s eye followed him closely as it prepared another strike.

Suddenly, the deerclops let out another indignant noise, turning in place to face a new threat. Wigfrid, dressed in her helmet and wielding her battle spear, let out a triumphant war cry. She had landed a deep hit on the deerclops’ good knee.  
Reinvigorated and motivated by this sudden ally, Wilson leapt back into the fight. He landed another charge on the giant’s wounded knees, releasing a guttural cry of his own as his talons rent one of its purplish muscles in two. More and more of his friends joined in the fight, even the children. Finally, they had the upper hand.  
The deerclops fell forward as its legs gave out, the calf tearing off in a sudden, horrific moment. Anguished, it collapsed to the ground, balancing its weight awkwardly on one arm while slashing viciously with the other. Easily dodging one of the giant’s weakened strikes, Wilson lunged for its exposed neck.

The winter giant’s life slipped away between his jaws.

 

The fighting had ended almost as quickly as it begun. Webber was bruised slightly and spattered with blood, but none of their own. They would have been done for if that other monster hadn’t shown up at just the right moment.  
The creature, having dealt the killing blow, was now approaching the group. It looked more bedraggled than Webber remembered it to be: half-starved, its feathers still pinned down in spots by slowly rotting remains of other animals. Its walk was slowed by a pronounced, slow, stagger, its back feet tripping over each other at times.  
Its eyes were deeply sorrowful, and they looked directly at Webber.

Nobody moved as it approached, save for Wigfrid, who seemed ready to jump back into battle. It didn’t seem aggressive, after all, with its swiftness and strength it would have probably killed them by now.  
But instead of pouncing, claws extended, it moved cautiously over, and then sat down in the snow. It glanced around the group, holding everyone’s gaze for a long moment.

And, out of nowhere, it began to cry.

 

Please.  
Please.  
No one recognised him. All they saw was yet another one of Maxwell’s unearthly creations, sent out to kill them or break their homes or steal their supplies.  
No wonder they were so startled when Wilson allowed a choking sob to escape from him, and the tears started to run down his face.  
They only know me as a monster.

Wilson clutched his head in his hands, the talons raking his skin. He didn’t mind, even as blood trickled down from the fresh wounds and mingled with his tears. A few more sobs wracked his body, until he pulled himself back together and looked back at his friends.  
They all stood in silence, watching, still clutching their weapons. Wilson sucked in a breath, lowering his taloned hands to the snowy earth. Together, they shared a moment of stillness and silence, until the sun began to dip low over the horizon.

Survivor after survivor turned slowly, cautiously, and began to drudge through the snow back to camp. Every survivor, except Webber. Strangely, the hybrid stayed behind, still watching Wilson.  
Then they, too, began to move. But not away; Webber stepped closer, slowly, keeping their pale eyes to the ground. Carefully, they stooped down, and touched the scales on Wilson’s hand.  
“Come with us,” they said softly. They knew what it was like to be a monster.

Wilson nodded quietly, and followed Webber back to camp.

 

Dark was already closing in by the time Webber reached camp again. The fire pit was already blazing bright, and a few of the survivors were sitting on their snow-soaked bedrolls, repairing a few vests or trying to assemble anything waterproof they could think of. Spring was fast approaching, and any lack of preparation would spell certain doom.  
Everyone greeted Webber lightheartedly, before pausing. The feathered creature limped slowly out of the shadows, following Webber slowly. A strange tension fell over the camp, with a few people tightening their grip on the nearest object they could use as a weapon.

But instead of making any threatening moves, the creature walked to an empty spot close to the fire, collapsed onto the ground, and closed its eyes, as if attempting to sleep.

The camp stayed silent for a moment, before whispered questions began to bounce between its members.  
“It needs to leave. Why did you bring it here, eh?” questioned Woodie, face pale. Of course, he hated birds, and the feathered monster probably seemed a bit too much like one. Webber cleared their throat. This was the first time they will have told anyone about the encounter in the forest.  
“We found it in the forest,” they began to explain. “It doesn’t seem mean. I think it saved us. And it’s smart.”  
Wickerbottom looked up from her work. “It’s intelligent?” she asked, intrigued.  
“We think it can understand us,” explained Webber. It was a hunch they had had since it had first spoken, but was further confirmed by it nodding in response to sentences it heard. A few people frowned and turned back to their work, but Wickerbottom continued talking to Webber. Her eyes glittered with intrigue, a welcome change from their normal exhaustion.

“Could we... try to communicate with it?” she asked. Webber had no objection.

 

Wilson felt a soft tap on his shoulder, interrupting his shallow rest. He snorted, annoyed, but he knew it was no threat. His eyes flicked open, and he found himself looking at Webber, who sat cross legged in front of him. Wickerbottom stood a little bit of a distance away, a new-looking book in her hand, writing something on its pages.  
“Hello!” said Webber cheerfully, waving. Then they paused, glanced back at Wickerbottom, and finally continued to speak. “Can you... can you understand us?” they queried nervously, not really knowing what to expect. Wilson’s eyes widened in joyful surprise. An opportunity to prove he was more than just a monster! He nodded quickly, hoping the message was received. Webber’s expression visibly brightened, and it lifted Wilson’s mood considerably.

Wickerbottom handed Webber a sheet of paper, and then continued to write. The hybrid studied the writing for a moment, still getting used to how written language works. Evidently, it was a sheet of questions with simple yes or no answers, as the next few moments were dominated by a long string of queries, some simple and some harder.  
“Did you kill the hounds?”  
Yes.  
“Did you speak?”  
Yes.  
“Can you speak now?”  
No.  
Eventually the stream of questions died down, and Webber paused. They folded the paper silently, and looked Wilson dead in the eye.  
“Do you want to protect us?”  
The question came from nowhere, and it shocked Wilson slightly.  
Yes, yes, for the love of God, yes.

The three sat in silence for a moment, before Webber talked again.  
“We are going to sleep. Okay?”  
Wilson nodded.

The scene grew slowly quieter, Wickerbottom being the only person awake. She was almost silent, writing things in her books, and making sure the fire didn’t burn down.  
There had to be something he could do to get them to recognise him. Something, anything at all. He glanced around the camp, looking for anything he could possibly do to help.

Then he saw it.  
The science machine and alchemy engine, spread out amongst his old tools. They were in a state beyond neglect and disrepair, as if they were put back together incorrectly, and spread upon a table as if prepped for an autopsy.  
If he could fix them, perhaps then they may realise who was trapped in this monstrous body.

But for now, it was time to sleep.

 

The camp was largely empty when Wilson woke up, save for those who had jobs in close vicinity. Wes gardened quietly just outside the walls, prepping soil for the spring, when things would grow well; Woodie was planting trees a short while further away. Other than that, the area was void of the normal bustle of camp activities.  
It was almost midday. Wilson cursed internally, disappointed at the amount of time he’d already wasted. Who knows how much time he’d have to look at the science equipment before the others returned and wouldn’t let him near it.

His side throbbed where the deerclops had struck him, pulsing with pain as he lifted his body off the ground. Thankfully, he didn’t fall over. Finally, he was getting the hang of moving on all four limbs. Wearily ignoring the pain in his side, he trotted around the burnt-out fire pit and to the makeshift table that the science machine was on.

Just as he’d presumed, the others had tried to fix it. His tools were laid out neatly, according to apparent use, but were actually rather mismatched. Next to them laid a sheet of papyrus, where a rough sketch of the machine was laid out. It was not his own drawing: had he even written down how to build these structures? No, he hadn’t. The others had drawn what they remembered the machine to look like, and it appeared that they used knowledge gleaned from random places to try and get a final schematic. Overall, it looked like Wickerbottom had pieced together something similar to an engine on an automobile.  
No way that could work.  
At least Wickerbottom had added some parts to his design that made some sort of sense, such as a back panel to easily access the internal mechanisms. Wilson certainly didn’t think of that when building the original structure, though it seemed like an obvious improvement now.

Wilson sat down next to the bench and stretched his hands, feeling the stiffness in their joints and scales. Somehow, they seem to have gotten less human in a way, no longer used to dextrous work. His thumb didn’t seem to be very opposable now, most of the knuckles frozen in place, not to mention the sizeable claw it ended in that would be nothing more than detrimental in such a situation. Fearfully, he tried to fold his hand into a fist, listening to the bones click in their joints at the unfamiliar motion. Refusing to cry again, he gulped in a sharp breath of air, and pressed down on his hand with the other hand.  
His knuckles cracked painfully as he guided his hands into different essential positions, such as pointing, or having only three of his fingers flexed at a time, or only two. Still, his fingers refused to comply properly with basic motions. Gritting his teeth in frustration, he forced his distorted hand back into a few positions.  
He could almost hear Maxwell laughing at him, watching him fail and fail again at trying to function normally. No way he’d let Maxwell have the satisfaction of yet another defeat.

Cautiously, he slid the very tips of his talons underneath the new wooden back panel. With one flex of his fingers, the panel came off. It was surprisingly easy, but then again, he was not used to his new strength. The panel fell to the table with a dull thud, stirring up some dust. Wilson winced at the sound, finding it much louder than it should have been, and glanced nervously in the direction of Wes.  
The mime was still focussed on work. Good. No chance of interruption, if Wilson kept the noise level down.  
He glanced at his monstrous hands, how they moved unnaturally and clumsily.  
If he could keep the noise level down.

In order to properly see the workings of the machine close up, he had to turn his head to the side, as if listening for a heartbeat. While he was in the forest, he’d had the dawning realization that his face was changed much more than he’d originally thought, having some kind of long beak or muzzle. After trying to figure out what exactly had happened to it, though, he’d settled on a beak of some sort, which was probably why his mouth felt so horrifically inflexible and nearly incapable of speech. At least he could be thankful for it saving him a lot of facial wounds, but it was more trouble than it was worth. In this case, it blocked him from getting close enough to peer between certain parts of the machine to see what was below. He made an involuntary noise of annoyance, and drew away from the machine.  
The science machine had been put back together in a way that if it had worked, it would have shredded itself apart from the inside out.

Trying desperately to avoid breaking anything, Wilson grabbed one of his old tools, and began to work.

 

Webber had been tagging along with Willow and Wickerbottom that day, to go and collect a whole host of resources from the closeby biomes, but primarily checking the traps in the savannah. Wigfrid and Wolfgang had gone to continue the apparently futile search for Wilson, while Wendy had set off on her own to check Webber’s long-neglected spider traps. While Webber would have preferred to do Wendy’s task instead, Wickerbottom insisted that they spent time together to discuss their interactions with the intelligent monster.  
Willow was intrigued by their discussion, and had inputs of her own.  
At one point, she mentioned something rather interesting and concerning.  
“If this monster is so smart, don’t you think it would be smart enough to pretend to be friendly just to take our food?”  
Though the question was pondered and dismissed, it left a chill in Webber’s heart.  
What if it was?

That’s probably why the group had been so startled to return to find the monster hunched over the science machine, surrounded by parts of it. Webber glanced nervously towards Willow, but she was already making a beeline for the beast.

 

There was something lodged between those two gears, deeper into the heart of the machine. Wilson knew he’d have to get it out as quickly as possible, as all the mechanical parts were made of woefully soft materials: wood, chalky stone, and gold. He frowned. Which tool would be the best for this?  
Trying not to knock anything over, he turned to the tools, giving the camp a passing glance to check if there were any more materials he could use.

Wait... was that Willow?  
He shook his head. Getting absorbed in his work again, wasn’t he. He’d let his guard down, and the others had seen him fiddling with the science machine, and they’d probably never let him near it again. Furious at himself, he set some of his tools back onto the table, and tried to look as little guilty as possible.  
No use. He was like a dog pretending to be innocent, when surrounded by the bitten and mangled remains of someone’s good pair of shoes.  
And, much like a person who had just lost their fine shoes to a rowdy dog, Willow looked bitterly angry.

“Get away from that, you dumb animal!” exclaimed Willow, obviously exasperated. Wilson was appalled by this, flinching visibly, before remembering that this wasn’t the harshest thing that one of them had yelled at an animal. That’s what he was to them. An animal, an animal that couldn't possibly be doing anything good with the science machines. Wilson felt his body automatically baring his teeth, emitting a rumbling snarl. The reflex left a foul taste in his throat, and, embarrassed, he pulled in a breath.  
Get ahold of yourself. Get ahold of yourself.  
His beak snapped open again, releasing a low growl aimed at Willow. Shocked at himself, he coughed and forced himself to turn away, to stop looking at her, to stop overreacting to such an insult. Sweat was dripping down his face from shame and focus, stressed further by the realization that his muscles had even unconsciously tensed to attack.  
Wilson. Get ahold of yourself. Nervously, he stood up, feeling the tension in his arms causing involuntary twitches.  
Don’t trip. Just walk away.  
Just walk away.

Enraged at himself, he slipped behind a wall of tents to cry.

 

Wickerbottom rushed over to the workbench after the monster had retreated. The way it behaved was confusing, showing displays of both aggression, as well as other emotions that she’d never expected to see in an eight-foot-tall, gore-spattered creature Webber had found in the woods.  
“Have Wilson’s science machines been damaged?” she asked Willow as she moved to the table covered in parts.  
“In all honesty, I have no idea,” said Willow. “It definitely did something, though.”  
Wickerbottom peered through her glasses, observing the machine. The creature had done remarkably little damage, mostly removing and rearranging things.  
“We’ll never finish this stupid machine by spring,” muttered Willow. “Couldn't Wilson have had some sort of common sense and written something down?”

“Miss Willow, look at this,” said Wickerbottom quietly, a little bit of joy rising in her voice. Willow looked over her shoulder, a scowl written on her face.  
“What is it?” she inquired bluntly, expecting to see some kind of irreparable damage.  
Wickerbottom paused. “I think our creature may have... fixed something.”

 

Wilson had collapsed in an ungainly heap a short distance away from camp, close to where they’d planted rows of scraggly saplings earlier that year. His body was still trembling with energy, and it took all his focus to prevent himself from running back and attacking someone. Sobbing painfully, as each breath uncomfortably moved the wounds on his side, he tried to calm down. He covered his eyes with his clawed eyes, trying to block out the uncomfortably bright glare from the dipping sun. No use. His senses were too strong, picking up every acute scent and sound and sight.  
There was something new welling up inside of him. He’d done this, all this, for his friends. He’d endured pain and starvation and being turned into this, this monster-- and for what? He couldn't protect his friends if they didn’t let him help. He couldn't undo the deal. He was trapped, and the beastly instincts inside him knew this. They sensed his hate, his upset, his pain, and they were taking control.  
Perhaps they don’t deserve my help. They don’t deserve it. They deserve... they deserve to die. What if I killed...  
NO. No. Stop thinking like this, stop thinking like this...  
Wilson clutched his head hard enough for his talons to dig into his skin, lying, shaking on the floor.  
Breathe. Breathe.  
All he managed was one short, sharp gasp, as if he was drowning in the open air.

 

Webber glanced over their shoulder, and, seeing that everyone else was occupied in some sort of debate, slipped out camp unnoticed.

They moved towards the hunched silhouette of the monster.

 

There was someone next to him, he could feel it. Dare he open his eyes?  
Eventually, curiosity got the better of him. Wilson’s eyes snapped open, meeting the kind gaze of Webber. He battled to avoid lashing out at the young hybrid, and instead made a mournful sound.

“Hello, monster friend,” said Webber, their voice soft and innocent. “Are you okay?”  
Wilson tried to smile when addressed as friend, only to find his beak had essentially removed that facial expression from his repertoire. Desperate for some communication, he bitterly shook his head. Webber nodded in response, and sat down next to Wilson.  
“Are you sad that Willow made you leave the machine?”  
Yes.  
“Is it because she was angry?”  
No.  
“Was it because you wanted to help?”  
Webber had seen through him so easily, it was startling. Wilson nodded, blinking away a few residual tears. The hybrid paused for a moment. Webber, please, keep asking questions, thought Wilson, begging to no one.  
“Were you trying to fix it?”  
Yes.  
“Do you know how to fix it?”  
Yes.  
Webber’s expression brightened a little. “Wow, really? I thought nobody except mister Wilson could fix it. That’s what everyone else says.”  
Wilson dug his talons into the ground, trying to keep his composure: not that he had much pride left, after falling for another one of Maxwell’s devious plans. Thinking of Maxwell, he bared his teeth at no one. Nobody except mister Wilson could fix the machines. Nobody but him. How could they be so blind to his plight?

“How about we go back to camp? We have yummy food and it’s cold out here,” said Webber brightly, standing up. Wilson nodded slowly, knowing he’d have to go back, sooner or later.

The two walked back to camp together, hoping the others would be happy to see them back.

 

By the time Webber and the monster made it back to camp, the fireside was about half empty. Most likely, the other half of the survivors were preparing for yet another fretful, sleepless night, worrying about the coming of spring. How soon was it? A week? Half a week? Tomorrow?  
Nevertheless, there were enough people still in the vicinity to make the monster visibly distressed. Cold gazes were thrown in its direction, and its pace began to falter as it received glare after glare. Their face wearing a sympathetic expression, Webber placed their hand reassuringly upon its feathered shoulders. No one had tried to hide their displeasure with its presence, the majority of the present survivors even getting up and walking away from the fire, slipping soundlessly into tents. Their anger was a tangible feeling in the air, and so was the creature’s fear: thin and tense, threatening to break at the slightest provocation. Webber swallowed grimly, and took a seat on a log by the fire. The monster sat down beside him, on soil, shifting uncomfortably when it realised the ground was wet from snow melt.  
There were only three of them around the campfire: Webber, the creature, and Wickerbottom. The older woman did not have a displeased expression on her face: in fact, it was quite the opposite, brightening slightly as she saw the hybrid and their monstrous friend approach the fire pit.

A silence fell over the area, until Webber finally spoke.  
“Missus Wickerbottom?” they asked softly.  
“Yes, dear?”  
“My friend said that it wanted to help. It says it knows how to fix the science machine.” Webber continued, even quieter, worrying that they may have imagined the whole interaction. Wickerbottom raised her eyebrows slightly, but she was no way near as surprised as Webber had expected to be.  
“I have come to the understanding that our friend is much more intelligent than we realise,” she replied, pausing briefly, “and that it may know more than we have previously surmised. Our dear monster, Webber, almost fixed the machines.” She glanced towards the feathered beast, which was looking off into the dark, casually listening. “All it needed was a little more time.”  
With this, the monster turned around, silently attentive. Its eyes flickered with hope underneath a layer of flat sadness. Wickerbottom looked it directly in the eye, her expression flat and analyzing. It stared back for a bit, but often broke its gaze to glance at Webber. This time, she spoke directly to it.  
“I think we should establish some form of communication with you,” she remarked. The monster nodded quickly, the sadness beginning to fade from its eyes: the sadness being replaced with the desperation of something being offered an opportunity they’d dreamed of having for who knows how long. Webber grinned, glad that Wickerbottom was willing to help their friend. “Do you, by any chance, know how to write?”

The monster nodded excitedly, brightening as it lowered a claw to the ground to scratch something into the soil.

Suddenly, it paused, its brow crinkling.  
Silence fell.

With an uncomfortable shifting motion, it readjusted its seat on the ground, its expression suddenly growing deeply grim. The ground remained unmarked with any lines, any legible letter. Webber glanced between the soil and the creature.  
“Did you... forget?” asked Webber tentatively, not wanting to upset the monster further.  
It made a low, sad noise, from deep within its chest, and its gaze dropped to stare morosely at nothing in particular.

The quiet of the dark embraced the three softly and uneasily.

 

Spring rolled in with a vengeance. Within the first few hours, a deluge of chill rain stripped the last remaining patches of snow bare, and churned the soil into a muddy, soft mess. The rain didn’t let up the next day, or the day after that. It continued on, even after collapsing all of the rabbit holes, even after soaking everything the survivors owned, even after nearly driving them half insane as they succumbed to a slow hypothermia. Resources were few and far between, meaning that most of their efforts were reduced to the few things they could make without the science machine’s help, resorting to what schematics Wickerbottom could recall. Food, rain protection, and whatever would prevent the onset of insanity. Even these items were spread thin amongst survivors.  
Yet, thinner still, was everyone’s patience.  
People were suffering. Sometimes there was not enough food for everyone, or none at all. The rain soaked into the material of their tents, their weather-beaten straw hats: nothing was dry. Everything smelled of mildew. Glances were constantly being taken over shoulders, fearful of the shadows coalescing into figures at the corners of their vision. Everyone devoted themselves to a task, every day, because slacking would earn you nothing but spite.  
Earlier that day, Willow had told Wilson to do something useful, or they’d abandon him somewhere in the nearby desert.  
That would be much easier if you let me close to the science equipment.

At least Webber had the kindness to make him a straw hat.

Thus, Wilson was stuck performing the only tasks people deemed him fit to do; essentially, every job he’d either been a poor at doing before, or that he’d desperately tried to avoid in order to work on other things. He guessed that his physical appearance, as well as his fight with the deerclops, looked suited to hauling loads of logs for Woodie, or hunting beefalo with Wigfrid.  
In actuality, he only wanted to sit at the work table and invent. The labor he was being put through hurt his joints, the bones in his hands being further distorted and rendered useless from damage and overwork. If he didn’t find a way to prove who he was soon, he feared he may be incapable of ever holding a tool again.  
He spent many a grueling, sodden day thinking about how he could communicate.  
He couldn't speak.  
He couldn't write.  
Could he even read anymore?  
What else had Maxwell taken?

Close to hopeless, he tried to spend as much time around Wickerbottom and Webber as possible. His last chances of communication were slipping away as the librarian pitched ideas that ultimately failed. Wes attempted to teach him the hand-signs the mime used to communicate, but Wilson’s fingers had grown so hard and inarticulate that even basic letters were agonizing or impossible. No matter how hard Wickerbottom tried to teach him to write, a strange mental block made the shapes and forms letters frustratingly incomprehensible to Wilson.

Yet, one dreary, sodden evening, Wilson managed to clear his mind enough to think of one final plan. A final plan that built off the fact that, surprisingly, he could still read semi-clearly.

He checked, and double-checked, to make sure nobody was watching, and quietly slid a battered, ancient dictionary from Wickerbottom’s hastily built bookshelf.

 

Webber saw the obvious surprise shift to reserved anger on Wickerbottom’s face as she was approached by the monster, her precious dictionary held gingerly open in its taloned hand. However, as much as she evidently wanted to demand that it put the book down, she made no move to.  
The monster was sensitive, intelligent, and curiously gentle when it needed to be. The way it held the pages of the book open in its scaled hands did no damage to the slightly foxed paper, as if it knew how important this book was to the group. It was from Earth, from before the shadows, from before Maxwell, and the creature held it like a delicate butterfly exoskeleton.

Their eight eyes darted between the hunched body of their monster friend, and the book it was holding. The dictionary was spread open, the words inside displayed. Many were too long for the young hybrid to understand, even though they’d been taught many, many words by the other survivors. But the monster pointed to one word that they did understand, and its pleading expression showed that it knew what the word meant as well.

Listen.

Wickerbottom glanced at the word.  
“You have my attention,” she said quietly, knowing that now was not the time to raise her voice over the proximity of the beast’s razor-sharp claw to the paper. The monster nodded, cautiously turning a few pages, searching for another word, then another.

Need.  
Help.

Webber made sure to scratch out the chopped phrases in the wet soil at their feet, as any detailed sentences would be lost in the time it took to find new words: not to mention, a lack of any conjugation and the dropping of words to save time. But other than that, the scene was one of solemn, tense quietness, the attention of both the survivors focusing on the silent plea of the monster.

Trap inside monster. Need recognise.  
Need learn speech.  
Need escape.

The monster shifted, frowning, as if trying to think of a way to construct a more elaborate sentence. It leaned over the book, flipping through the pages, until eventually setting the dictionary down.  
It pointed to itself, and to a word simultaneously.

Human.

 

Wilson stared directly at Wickerbottom, hoping she was only silent because of some sort of realization dawning on her.

He was right.

 

What the creature meant was very obvious, and it only became more so with a few seconds of surprised evaluation of the situation. This world belonged to Maxwell: anything could happen. After all, Woodie turned into a beaver-like monster on full moon, so what would have stopped Maxwell from turning another hapless human into a beast as well?  
And though its body was hunched, broken, and distorted, human features were still visible. The face almost looked like a large beak had been shoved lazily over the nose and mouth, leaving other facial features-- cheekbones, jawline, eye shape-- recognisable underneath a layer of short feathers.

Features that were both recognisable as human, and unnervingly familiar.

Wickerbottom was not a fan of illogical thinking. Any notion that popped into her mind would be mulled over, compared with prior knowledge, and checked for logic before she accepted it. However, the indefinitely long time she’d spent in this world, far from familiar animals and plants, and further from home than ever, had made strange thoughts more logical than not. Nevertheless, the first idea that came to her mind was one that she did not want to think about, let alone accept.  
Yet, she had to.

“You certainly made a few poor choices recently, Mr. Higgsbury,” she said quietly, yet assuredly, even though she felt uneasiness rise in her throat. No point in speaking as if she was unsure. The beast made a mildly annoyed noise, as if taken aback by the notion that its plight was its own fault.

That was most certainly Wilson.

“Mister Wilson?” stammered Webber, their eyes blinking in confusion. The monster-- Wilson, attempted to smile, blinking tears from his eyes. He nodded solemnly. “Mister Wilson!” exclaimed the hybrid, much louder this time. The young child sprinted over to the transformed scientist, hugging one of his feathered legs.  
“Webber, dear?” said Wickerbottom quietly. The hybrid glanced over at her, listening. “I feel that we should stay silent about this development until we find out what has happened.”

Webber fell silent, but nodded. They knew there was no point in scaring everyone. Fear was already permeating the camp: what if they found out Maxwell was just turning people into monsters?  
Things would be so much easier if Wilson could communicate effectively.

 

Having two people know helped immensely, though it was not a desirable situation.

Webber’s kind, childishly upbeat words were one of the only things that preserved Wilson’s slowly dwindling humanity, and Wickerbottom provided astute ways to attempt to communicate, manipulate tools, and regain the flexibility in joints that had been hardened by work. She had described the monster body, the shape of which had remained a mystery up to this point, as a ‘torture device of excruciatingly high attention to detail’: and though, as one of the more intelligent members of the group, she was usually right, this was probably the most correct statement she’d ever said.  
Maxwell had completely destroyed Wilson’s human body, shifting the shoulders and center of gravity to almost completely disable all use of his hands, and curved the spine and hips to a point where standing up straight would risk fracturing vertebrae. The neck was stiff and heavy, having to hold his skull out at an angle that would tire out humans within minutes, with the bones protruding out underneath the feathers. As for his hands and feet, they’d been distorted into talons for killing. The palms were lengthened, and his thumbs had been bent to where they were almost only functional as dewclaws. It seemed to be designed with ruining Wilson’s chances of doing what he did well-- rudimentary surgery, dissections, engineering, anatomical drawings-- in favor of the strength he had so desperately asked for.  
Wilson was unsure whether or not he wanted to actually see for himself what he looked like. Mere descriptions were enough to make him feel sick to the stomach. Two rows of fangs. Talons long and sharp enough to stab straight through a human torso.  
He choked, stifling a wretch.  
Shit.

It was late at night, with everybody but the insomniac Wickerbottom sleeping in tents. She carefully tended to the fire, drying the drenched logs in its heat before carefully adding new fuel. Despite having little company, nights like these were much better than any day.  
Why? Because the science machines were free to fix.  
The flexibility of his fingers and hands was almost gone, making even holding the simplest of tools impossible: scissors, rudimentary wire cutters, and the like were out of the question. This left him with woefully little to work with, and even less to do that didn’t hurt his fused hands in some way. Yet, he worked more easily than ever before, quietly happy, his smile hidden in the hard corners of a beak.  
Progress was slow, yet satisfying.  
Replace the burned wood axle.  
Check the gear ratio.  
Sometimes he even forgot he was a monster, but not for long. Every time he did, the pain in his clumsy hands would be a harsh and sudden reminder.

A miraculously short amount of time passed, and the science machines were completely repaired.

 

“And how, exactly, did the science machine just get fixed?” asked Willow, talking to no one in particular. Her voice was not angry, merely perplexed and slightly harsh from her worn-out temper with spring. Frowning, she sucked in a breath: was it even worth asking about? Who in camp could even fix the machines, and why hadn’t they done it earlier?  
There was no time for wondering. The rain was only spattering right now, and she should collect as much resources as she could until the next torrential downpour hit, especially now that she had some way to build things from them. Still mildly curious, she turned away from the machine, intent on grabbing a backpack and some tools.

“Hello!” said Webber cheerfully, the young hybrid seemingly materializing from behind her. How had she not noticed their footsteps? “Are you happy that the science machine is fixed? I am!”  
“Hello, Webber,” Willow said cautiously, not really knowing what to think of the whole situation. Had Webber somehow figured out how to fix the machines? Was there something she didn’t know about? “I am happy too. Do you know who fixed them?”  
“My friend did,” said Webber. The hybrid’s sentence seemed forced, as if they wanted to say something else but thought better of it at the last second.  
Hm.  
“Do you mean... the monster?”  
“Yeah, my monster friend!”  
The conversation paused suddenly, with neither side sure of what to say.  
“Well, Webber, would you like to help me gather some things to build with? Now that your... friend... fixed the machines, and all,” suggested Willow. Hopefully, she’d get some more information out of the usually talkative hybrid through idle discussion. Webber grinned, nodding, always happy to help. Willow smiled as joyfully as she could at Webber, attempting to reassure the hybrid. “Then... could you grab a nice axe and a backpack?” she asked brightly, and, as she expected, Webber gleefully accepted the task and moved away into the camp storage.  
Her chest felt tight, even after sighing deeply. The conversation was so awkward, so tense.  
Webber is hiding something.  
It was not a thought she’d ever predicted to have, never hoped to have. If Webber was keeping secrets, who else was? What kind of thing would the child deem important enough keep secret?

It did not take long for Webber to come back, weighed down with a partially-full backpack and more gathering tools than she’d asked for.  
“I’m ready!” they said. “Where are we going?”  
“Just to the forest,” said Willow. Webber said they’d first seen the monster in the forest; perhaps the spring thaw may have exposed its den or something. Either way, it was a long enough walk that they’d have plenty of time to talk.

“So, Webber, your monster friend fixed the science machines?” Willow finally asked a short while into their walk. Webber paused slightly, as if realising they were tripping and halting to avoid a fall. They swallowed, the uneasiness already tangible.  
“Y-yes?” they said questioningly, confused as to why Willow was bringing the topic up.  
“Do you know how it fixed the machine? It could be useful to know,” she replied calmly, not wanting Webber to become as suspicious of her intentions as she was of them. They were smart enough to realise that she was not just having a friendly conversation.  
“We don’t...” they said quietly. “He is very smart,” Webber eventually added, not wanting to trail off constantly.  
He?  
“Do you think we could ask it?” she said. Webber paused: they were plainly nervous speaking to her, worried about saying the wrong thing. As someone who was usually open with their emotions, Willow’s suspicions were only raised.  
“Maybe we could!” replied the hybrid.

At this point, that really seemed like the only way of getting information.

 

“Why hello there, monster,” Willow said cheerfully to Wilson. She was not fantastic as avoiding suspicion: in this case, her voice was so saccharine that the scientist immediately began to predict a hidden motive. Gladly, his beaked face wasn’t very expressive, otherwise she would have caught him making a distinctly condescending expression. What was she hoping to gain?  
“Webber said you fixed the science machine. How did... how did you know? Did someone teach you?” Willow stammered, trying to be cautious. She was speaking to a massive, fanged beast, after all, one that had showed signs of aggression before. “I just... Wilson’s been gone for so long. He’s obviously abandoned camp. I was wondering if you saw him. The notion that he abandoned us is setting everyone on edge.” Wilson spared a glance at the camp: what she said was true. Everyone’s tempers had been shortened by spring, and a few looked like they were ready to ‘follow his example’ and leave as well. Their patience wouldn’t last the season.  
He’d have to tell them soon enough, even though Wickerbottom has told him no time and time again.  
“He grated on everyone’s nerves, sure, but it looks like we’re going to die without his help. We all just want to know if you know where he’s gone.”

A backhanded compliment? Perhaps, but the praise was accepted. Not even the inflexible corners of his beak could mask his smug expression as she finished her sentence. Willow cast him a worried look; Wilson realised that he probably looked as conceited as a monster who’d remembered a particular person they’d killed, instead of a human who’d just received a boost to his ego. Immediately, he corrected his expression to a more neutral expression, resting back into a sitting position in order to remove any kind of hostility that may be perceived by her. Her expression remained concerned, glancing at his knife-sharp claws, his bent fangs, as if comparing the size of them to the claw marks the group had found in his waistcoat earlier.  
In order to remind Willow that he couldn't exactly respond (or, at least, that was his excuse), he let one of the uncomfortably natural animalistic snorts escape his mouth. Willow looked away, frowning.

“I can believe I forgot you couldn't talk. I’m so stupid,” she muttered, before glancing up. “You’re almost human, you know. You act like it.”

Wilson held back tears until she walked away.

Almost human,  
Yet drifting further away every day.

 

Need tell them.  
Listen.  
Need tell them.

“No.” said Wickerbottom sternly. “You understand perfectly well the kind of pandemonium that would result if people knew you’d been transformed into a leviathan bird.”

Everyone worry. They think...  
Wilson tapped the page, thinking. How would he assemble this sentence?  
Think... abandon-- leave?  
Wickerbottom seemed to know what he was trying to say. She wasn’t oblivious to the situation on the camp. Nevertheless, Wilson was being irrational, and he didn’t really seem to be paying much attention anyways. His deerlike ears had flicked sideways, something in the vicinity distracting him from the conversation at hand, meaning any rational things Wickerbottom said right now would probably be ignored.  
The crest of dark feathers on the back of his neck bristled, all his attention shifting completely to whatever he’d been noticing.

This time, the rest of the camp heard it too, quiet and distant.  
Another pack of hounds.

Before anyone made the slightest movement towards a marginally useful weapon, Wilson has wheeled around, snarling with a bloodcurdling sound. All his senses were obviously fixated on the sharp, loud barking of hounds, miniscule movements in the leaves imperceptible to Wickerbottom, the smell of the hounds putrid drool and hide. His eyes were filled with a kind of detached focus, as if he spent all his mental capacity on the notion of hound, and nothing more.  
It was almost stunning, how much he’d changed in a matter of seconds. Whatever abilities Maxwell had given him as result of the transformation, they were certainly effective. He’d visibly shifted into a less awkward stance, leaning forward onto his strong forelegs, poised for an explosive charge: his beak hung slightly open, bearing rows of tapered fangs, similar to a cat sensing for prey. It was more than stunning. It was horrifying.  
A lump grew in Wickerbottom’s throat as she helped Webber with putting on a log suit.

A split second before the hounds lunged out of the thick shrubs nearby, Wilson sprang forward, colliding with the wolf beasts with explosive power. One monster released a pained cry, though it was hard to tell whether it was a hound or the transformed scientist, and the air was already tinged with blood. Mere seconds after landing from the lunge, Wilson spun and severed a hound’s head clean from its neck with a mighty snap of his beak, spattering the ground and the white feathers on his face with frothing blood.

After that point, the entire scene turned into a confusing mess of gore, spears, and claws, lashing out in every discernible direction, trying to do as much damage to the other side without hurting their allies. Hounds shredded into each other’s flesh with poorly-aimed bites, Wilson’s side took long gashes from the survivor’s spears, and many of his friends took wounds from hounds that he’d snatched between his teeth and shaken to death as their bodies went through violent death throes. If the fight hadn’t ended quickly, someone may have been accidentally trampled.

 

Are the hounds... gone?  
Were those hounds?  
Nothing was wrong with Wilson’s vision. He could see everything perfectly fine: things standing in the bloody field, circling. They didn’t look like hounds, but for the life of him, he couldn't hope to identify what they actually were. The creatures had sharp looking things, like claws, and they were covered in hound blood, and they looked angry for some reason.  
They didn’t smell like hounds.  
What are they?  
Think, Wilson... you know what they are.  
He certainly did, but that knowledge was evading him.

Play it safe. Be still. Don’t scare them. Maybe they’ll go away, and you won’t have to worry about what they are.

 

“Hey, are you okay?” Willow asked. The monster hadn’t moved since the end of the fight, and its expression was growing increasingly tormented, its eyes glancing between the survivors with a kind of glazed-over confusion, as if it wasn’t able to lose the mentality of the battle. “Can you hear me?”  
Cautiously, she dropped her spear, and moved slowly towards the beast.

 

It’s moving closer!  
Wilson stared at the figure. What was it? What was it?  
Why can’t I think?  
Whatever it was, it looked poised to attack, slithering towards him like a snake after a mouse. If he let it get too close, it would--  
It touched him. Did it attack him? Was that an attack?  
Attack? They must be hounds. They smell like hound blood!  
He flinched away, wheeling to look at the creature, snarling at it to see if it would react. Some kind of thoughtless chant had sprung in his mind, a vortex that devoured any possible theories he could formulate on the intentions of the creature. It egged him on to fight. It scared him, made his teeth click against one another as he tasted the air for scents, made his claws dig into the soil in preparation for a strike.

Hound hound houndhoundhound hound bad bad baD BAD BADBADBAD

 

Willow felt the monster flinch away from her touch, its bulk moving surprisingly quickly in order to look at what had touched it. The distracted, confused fog still pooled in its eyes as it examined her, obviously still distressed from the fight, and its beak was twitching as if mumbling to itself.  
“Okay...” she said quietly, trying to move as little as possible. She had to get away. It looked just about ready to kill her. She dared to take a singular step backwards, seeing the monster twitch nervously with the slightest movement. Its side bore dark, painful lacerations, the work of a spear: it was scared of the survivors. They had injured it. Knowing how Maxwell made animals behave, the beast would attack Willow, and probably kill her.

In one quick motion, she picked up her spear from the ground, and began to backpedal faster.

“No!” the monster screamed, or at least it made a noise similar to the word, staring at the tip of the spear. “No! Bad bad BAD BAD!”  
She didn’t have time to ponder the fact it had just spoken. Perhaps it saw her recoil in fear, perhaps it didn’t. Either way, it lunged at her, aggravated by the minute movements she made. Screaming, spit frothing, claws extended, it bounded forward, almost upon her in seconds. The sharp length of its talon was aimed towards her neck--

And then it stopped. Webber, barely past four feet tall, stood between the enraged monster and Willow. The hybrid’s eight eyes were wet with fearful tears, the legs at the sides of their head trembling. The monster snarled, but didn’t move another pace forward. The ground near where Willow had been standing was shredded, upturned, the soil ripped by the strike that was pulled short. Webber was choking on tears.  
“What are you doing? Willow’s a friend...” sputtered the hybrid, glancing fearfully at the monster’s rage-filled eyes. They stepped forward, onto the ripped-up ground. “Are you hurt? Are you okay?” they asked as they moved towards the beast.

“Webber, it’s going to kill you!” exclaimed Willow, staying her ground. Webber ignored her.

The spider hybrid was almost touching the feathery hide of the monster, speaking so quietly it was almost incomprehensibly faint to Willow, who was only standing about five feet away. She strained to listen, wondering why the feathered abomination wasn’t harming the child.

Webber whispered first.  
“Do you remember that these are your friends?”  
The monster only glanced at them, uncomprehending.  
“Do you remember who you are?” asked Webber, more insistently. The beast eventually made a deeply mournful noise, shifting uncomfortably, its eyes clearing of anger. A film of sadness shifted over its entire being, causing it to adjust its weight backwards, to relax its muscles. Webber was crying, the tears drawing soaking streaks down the fur on their face. They leaned towards the monster, whispering into its ear.  
“Remember that you’re human, Mister Wilson,”

Willow wasn’t completely sure of what she heard, but it filled her stomach with a knot of dread.

 

“Mr. Higgsbury?”  
“Mr. Higgsbury?”  
“Mr. Higgsbury?”

Wilson started awake, almost lashing out in front of him. Everything, absolutely everything, was drowned in the heavy draping of blood, its smell, its color, its taste. He’d tasted blood that was not his own, and gone back for more after the fight. It was revulsive, how he’d let into some kind of horrific bloodlust, and had literally eaten a hound. Consequently, he was spending his time wallowing in self-disgust and shame behind the camp.  
Standing in front of him, more stern than usual, was Wickerbottom. He groaned, covering his blood-sullied face.  
“I’m not going to scold you like a child,” said Wickerbottom curtly. “You’ve gone through enough, and you’ve realized your mistakes. I’m just going to assist you in making sure that will never happen again,”

Wilson glanced up at the older woman. “No...” he managed to croak, not wanting to interact with anything, although the effort required to speak left his throat dry and his focus spent. Wickerbottom raised her eyebrows, clearly observing the intense mental fatigue it caused for him to even say the simplest of words.  
“Mr. Higgsbury, I know you as an intelligent man, but I also know that you’re losing your control on his whole situation. Yesterday, Willow was almost a victim to your rage, and if Webber hadn’t risked their life to stop you, she most certainly would’ve been.” She leaned in closer, he voice growing more insistent and teacherly. “Now, I wouldn’t waste your strength on telling me no again. You can’t spend the rest of spring doing nothing. You know it will only worsen the circumstances.”

The monstrous scientist growled annoyedly, but nodded anyways.

“Now, from what I can tell, you’ve managed to speak a few words. I was thinking we could pursue more intellectual exercises, and perhaps that will assist you in your fight against Maxwell’s magic. We won’t know for sure, but it certainly cannot harm you,” said Wickerbottom, taking off her woven backpack. Wilson eyed the satchel curiously, wondering what she could possibly have in it.  
Luckily, his incessant curiosity was not left to fester, and the librarian soon opened the bag. From it, she produced a few pages of papyrus and some charcoal, a couple bags of gears, sprockets, axles, and escapements that they had made pre-transformation in order to experiment with furthering technological progress. Wilson, already holding back tears, strained to avoid emotion as he looked at his own careful handiwork. The mechanical pieces were so small and delicate, to the point that Wilson flinched when Wickerbottom handed him a gear, as if the rough scales of his palm would destroy it.  
He knew the equipment wasn’t here to admire, but Wickerbottom let him observe the cog for an ample stretch of time. It looked so stark against his broken hand: a bright, harsh reminder against the elongated palms and stiffened fingers that he now owned.

“I’ll give you something more complex to attempt,” said Wickerbottom. “I know it will be difficult to handle a charcoal pencil without breaking it, but I’m sure the distraction will be welcome.” She lifted the gear from his hands, replacing it with a twig-like writing instrument. She glanced up at him from behind her glasses.  
“Could you draw a planetary gearbox? I know it’s going to be challenging for you.”

Wilson frowned. He knew exactly what to sketch, but he could barely remember how to hold a pencil. Begin with the basics, he told himself. Now, was he left or right handed?  
After finally deciding to told the pencil in his right hand, he leaned over the paper, careful not to topple over. Wickerbottom sat on a log nearby, watching closely, wondering how long he would last before becoming too frustrated to continue on.

He had to consciously repeat instructions to himself to keep from getting distracted, but luckily, the picture of the gearbox was easier than trying to write.  
It was a bit lopsided, and he broke the tip of the charcoal a few times, but at least he managed to crudely scribble a shape reminiscent of what he was trying to draw.

Eventually, he sat back, already tired. Since when had mechanical sketches become so utterly exhausting? Maxwell seemed to enjoy taking the joy out of everything.

 

Willow confronted Webber as soon as the hybrid didn’t have chores to attend to. She wanted to forget about what they had said to the monster to calm it down, but the thought had lodged deep into her mind, impossible to remove. She was unsure whether or not she would be comfortable with what Webber had said. If Wilson wasn’t the monster, he’d definitely abandoned the group by now. If he was, then matters may be a lot worse.  
The latter notion filled her with dread. Not only was he grotesquely warped into a Varg-like beast, he was also behaving like one, snapping and snarling and almost killing people. She could’ve sworn the beast had returned to the hound corpses to eat the quickly rotting monster flesh.  
She almost threw up in her mouth just thinking about it. At least she’d accepted the fact that Wilson had left the group, but this added another layer of horror on top.

“Webber?” she asked, approaching the hybrid cautiously. Webber glanced up from their half completed flower parasol.  
“Hello, Miss Willow!” they remarked, surprisingly cheerful. They were the most positive among the members of the group, but would they really be this happy if Wilson had turned into that thing?  
“Webber, I’m worried about your monster friend. It looked very angry,” she said. She knew there was absolutely no way to ask what she wanted without being direct and to the point, but perhaps she could make Webber accidently slip up with a few questions beforehand. “How did you calm it down?”  
“It forgot that you were friends, so we told it,” said Webber matter-of-factly, turning back to their parasol. “Then, it remembered,”  
“Did you tell it anything else?”  
“No.”

Willow sighed as quietly as she dared. She’d have to ask directly. No point in letting Webber hide information from her.  
“Webber, is... is your ‘monster friend’ actually Wilson?”  
Webber made a startled expression, nearly dropping their parasol. “We didn’t say anything like that... we meant...” they trailed off, glancing away. Their eyes were tearing up, and they sniffed. “Don’t ask Miss Wickerbottom. She’ll be angry at me for letting you hear.”  
Willow took that as a definitive yes.

 

After a grueling thirty minutes of work, Wilson had completed a second task: to assemble the gearbox he’d drawn. Of course, the hardest part of making the gears had already been done, but it didn’t take many mistakes to realize that the strength of his monstrous hands was enough to crush the gold teeth of the cogs. Despite only needing four gears for the whole contraption, he had used around fourteen. Luckily, Wickerbottom, always prepared, brought countless backups.  
He had just begun another sketch, the strain of avoiding shattering the delicate pencil causing sweat to bead on his brow, when another distraction came along to interrupt his focus.

“You two owe me an explanation,” said Willow as she walked towards them, frighteningly deadpan. Wilson jumped slightly at the sound, but Wickerbottom remained level-headed, and quickly responded with a logical, yet witty, retort.  
“I hope you realize that only one of us has a vocabulary of over two words. I hope you only expect an explanation from me,” she replied flatly, regarding Willow with positive annoyance. It had been a long time before Wickerbottom had someone who was interested to teach to, and she obviously found Willow’s interjection rather rude. Wilson flinched, not wanting to know how heated of an argument could ensue, and carefully put down the pencil he was holding.

Willow sighed, glancing between Wilson and Wickerbottom.  
“Look, you’re going to think I’m crazy, but... is that thing actually Wilson?”  
How rude! Wilson recoiled, feeling an expression of mild disgust take hold. She’d figured out that he was a monster, yet she still regarded him as a thing?  
Calm down. Be grateful. The more people figure it out, the closer to a solution we’ll get.  
Wickerbottom made no reply, giving Willow time to scoff and continue. “Hell, it’s even got the same facial expression as him!”  
“Please, watch your language--”  
“Wickerbottom, it’s fine. Just... can someone please explain what’s going on here? Is that monster Wilson? Why is he a monster?”  
For a brief moment, the only sound was that of Wickerbottom drawing in a sharp, frustrated breath, preparing to speak.  
“The truth is, gathering any information on this situation is extremely difficult. From what I’ve learned so far, this is the doing of Maxwell, though I doubt the decision to transform Mr. Higgsbury into a monster was arbitrary,” explained the librarian, adjusting her glasses as she spoke. “Furthermore, the effects of the transformation appear to be very carefully planned out. As you saw, after the hound attack...”  
“As I saw? It almost killed me! How could you think that’s Wilson?” Willow asked, though the answer to the question was rather evident. The conversation faded to a void of silence.

Wilson shifted awkwardly, not sure how he could add to the conversation without a proper vocabulary. This was a delicate situation. At least the silence allowed him to refocus, a task he’d been finding increasingly harder to do. His mind had a growing tendency to wander off to unknown and unhelpful places, and without Wickerbottom’s help... he’d be a monster by now. He really would be. Quietly, not wanting to shatter the gossamer layer of peace between the three, he leaned forward to attempt to continue his work.  
Focus, focus...  
“Wilson?”  
Typical. Just as he’d managed to snatch his straying focus, someone stole it away again. His head snapped upward, frowning, before suddenly softening to a less threatening expression after realising, for the hundredth time, that his normally standoffish demeanor could easily be confused to bloodthirsty, monstrous, rage. The voice was not Wickerbottoms’, but Willow’s– she was speaking directly to him, eyes fearful of the raw power she’d seen, but she was still addressing him. Her tone suggested a terrible thought she was grappling with. “W-Wil?”  
Wilson nodded, shifting in his seat, awkwardly running a singular monstrous hand through the matted feathers on his head. He attempted to adopt the most human demeanor he could, though his shoulders tweaked painfully at the motion, the bones and joints not meant to flex that way.  
“Oh my God. God– shit,” Willow spat to the ground, not wanting her angry tone to be received as directed towards him. “What the hell are we going to do now?”  
Wickerbottom merely adjusted her glasses and gave Willow a sage look. “We are going to try and keep his mental faculties in check. We have been practicing mathematics and engineering, as well as linguistics.” She glanced towards Wilson. “It appears to be slowing– but not stopping– whatever is happening to Mr. Higgbury’s mind.”

Wilson whimpered slightly, well aware of his way out, and wishing his tongue didn’t feel like a useless lump of cartilage instead of anything vaguely capable of vocabulary. However, he was determined to display his skills, and so, puffing up like a rooster, he released a single, quiet word.  
“Bad,” he managed, immediately deflating. He had a whole script versed out in his mind, but just the beginning in which he demanded Maxwell’s presence was far more syllables.  
Willow looked like she was about to cry. He had never seen anyone so desperate to hear him ramble again.

 

Long hours of hard labor froze Wilson’s joints and thickened his monstrous musculature as spring wore into summer. Workouts done with Wickerbottom to improve his flexibility seemed futile, his fingers so stiff and useless he could hardly hold anything anymore. He moped, grass hat battered and drooping off his head with the same demeanor as him, lethargic and despondent. However, work did benefit him in one way. The labor of speech was becoming easier, and he managed many words in a row without needing to be enraged to do so. As his knuckles jammed together arthritically and his frame sagged of his bones like some abomination of a heifer, his tongue became looser, more refined.  
“W– Wicker– Wickerbottom,” he muttered, voice breaking in hiccuppy snaps as he spoke. “I’m-m... h-hungry.”  
“Oh hush, you’re always hungry.”  
“Mm-m hungry... where’s th-the f–” his voice teetered off, losing focus. Wilson frowned, sweat dripping from his feathered brow, attempting to finish the sentence. A sound similar to a boiling teakettle crawled from his throat.  
Wickerbottom sighed. “You were closer to a longer sentence there. We will get there soon, Mr. Higgsbury. I pride myself on my teaching, if I may gloat.”  
“B-boastful...” he muttered. She raised an eyebrow in response, unperturbed.  
“That was a record recovery time between utterances.”

He hadn’t quite processed how much his speech had improved. He was mostly fussing over his body, massive and beastly, probably over a ton in weight and bristling with gnarled teeth and claws that only seemed to get worse. Some of his fangs were becoming overgrown and sticking out of his beak or jamming up into the roof of his mouth, and only the wear and tear of walking kept his claws from curling around and burying themselves in his flesh. He couldn't tinker or draw– all the writing practice had gone to hell. Willow and Webber tried to get the others to lighten the loads they fastened to his back, but the camp as a whole saw him as a beast of burden. They had no qualms about ladening him with wood and stone– he could carry it, no problem, and he could carry more that his joints were hardening. But that was precisely what he wanted to avoid.

Truth be told, he couldn't stand it any longer. He felt like if he didn’t get his dexterity back, he’d beat his head open on a rock, but he knew the lovely instincts designed to keep him in this form would prevent that. Even speaking didn’t help. He needed to do science. He needed to get out.  
And thus, with no warning, he stormed out of camp, deciding that enough linguistic progress had been made. It was time. He was so determined that he didn’t notice Wickerbottom, Willow, and Webber quietly tailing him, stalking through the dry underbrush and crackling the leaves as they stepped.

“M-Maxwell... Ma-ax...” he drawled, wanting to save his energy, but having no idea how to get the puppet master’s attention. The smell of cigar was thickening, a wildfire in the dry underbrush, but its source stayed out of reach. That was, until it appeared behind him. The smell of cigar spiked so suddenly it sent Wilson reeling, jumbling the words in his mind, choking his throat and causing a hacking cough.  
“You called, pal?” mused the puppet master, leaning casually on a dry tree and flicking hot ashes onto the parched foliage, uncaring if the whole Constant burned to the ground. “I am honestly surprised. You have been so quiet about this whole affair, I thought you were rather overjoyed!” In response, Wilson snarled, coughing out smoke, and attempted to speak. Nothing. The smoke was stifling. “Pal? Are you going to say anything?”  
Digging his claws into the ground, Wilson hissed, attempting to make his tongue flex. The scent cloyed, destroying what focus he had, and sticking to his tongue like a tough resin. His muscles practically groaned as he shifted, as if the nightmares that had caused him to transform had crawled back in.  
He couldn't talk. He couldn't. Useless noises came out, alongside tears. Maxwell watched with no change in countenance, only feigned confusion hiding a smirk.

Tearfully, Wilson looked away, head sagging under his hat as he glanced towards the bushes. He wanted to see nothing, nobody, stare off into the distance in shame and wait for Maxwell to saunter off. However, the nothingness blinked– the eyes of Webber, wide and curious, stared back from a hole in the bush.  
“Do you remember who you are?”  
“Remember that you’re human, Mister Wilson,”  
Wilson winced at the memory of those words, blinking the tears out of his eyes. That was right! He was human, he was damn human, and Maxwell was going to fix all of this. He’d rip the puppet master’s throat open if he had to. He’d do anything, anything– froth dripped from his beak, and his eyes flashed with rage.  
“Turn me back! I hate this! U-undo! Undo!” he shrieked, slamming his broken hands onto the hard ground, ripping chunks from the soil. “Undo it! Take it back!” Wilson was bristling, inadvertently advancing forward and looming his bulk over the nonchalant king.  
“I see, pal. Alright then.”  
Maxwell turned and strolled into the bush.

 

Webber watched as nothing changed. Wilson stumbled back, defeated, remaining as a beast– his abused body was shaking with sobs, almost convulsing, as if wracked with severe pain. Then, in a horrible rasp, he collapsed, kicking dust into Webber’s eyes, a massive throe shaking his body and causing him to rake long lines into the earth. Rising gargles rose, suggesting more than anguished grief, almost on par with a vomiting catcoon.  
Another horrible retch, and Wilson clambered to shaky feet before reeling backwards, clutching at his feathered neck, slamming into a tree and sliding to the ground. Three coughs passed, the form slumped, and a body slid from the toothy mouth like vomit.

Alongside Willow and Wickerbottom, Webber rushed forward, feet skittering on the parched ground and over small pebbles. The body lying there was clothed in a red waistcoat and, despite the blood-tinged slime from inside the creature, had a very obvious head of messy black hair. Wilson– and, with Wickerbottom’s reassurance, he was alive.

He was the sole survivor from the fire, but perhaps he bore the most hardship of all.


End file.
